Counting Down
by midnightluck
Summary: Timothy Drake dies and Tim wanders a bit before finding that sometimes, you're your own worst enemy; thus, Timothy McGee is born.
1. Prologue

__All recognizable characters belong to their respective owners (DC Comics, Donald Bellisario/Don McGill).__

__WARNING: Spoilers for through the end of Robin (v2) all the way up to (but not including) Bruce's...disappearence, and also Return of the Joker...kind of. And for NCIS, anything up to the end of season 7 is fair game.__

__Inspired by Franavu's short about Timothy being Timothy. Also, I'm trying a kind of odd style for this; let me know if it works?  
><em>_

* * *

><p>Dick tried to contact me a few times. I never answered. I can't help but love him for that. He's always been my idol, and then, my big brother in all but blood. And blood isn't really that important anyhow.<p>

So he called me twice, and sent an email or two. But I was his "little brother," and, much as he cared for me, Bruce has always had Dick's blind loyalty. If I talked to him now, then he'd be forced to lie to Bruce. And Dick can keep a secret from anyone but him.

It felt like half my heart just died, but I honestly could never force Dick to choose between his family members. So I didn't answer the phone, and I deleted and purged my email account.

I knew it wouldn't be easy, not with Babs' know-how and Dick's stubbornness, but I vanished. I left Gotham, I crawled into a deep, dark hole, and pulled the hole in after me. I even tricked the subcutaneous tracker. I'd turned it off, but they could activate it remotely. A brilliant tactical move for a crimefighter with a history of being kidnapped, but not so good for a broken civilian who just wants out.

It wasn't too deep, but it still hurt like hell when I yanked it out. The knife shook in my hands, and I had to swallow bile before I could wipe off the blood and bandage my hip. I'd had worse, but I'd never been the one doing the cutting before.

Let's not dwell, though. I threw the tracker into a decent-sized river in the first town I came across. I don't quite recall the name, not anymore. But it's okay, because I don't ever want it back. I hope they had fun tracking it down the current.

I went to ground. Well, not exactly. I moved around a lot, even spent some time in the wilds. I'd roll into a town, get a job, make some money, then move out a few months later, before anyone would quite remember me.

But that was no way to live, and I knew it. And then, while I was considering moving on to a new place, a guy snatched a lady's purse right in front of me and ran.

I tripped him. Of course I tripped him. Ever since I figured out that my two idols were one and the same, I've always wanted to fight crime. Maybe even before that.

The lady got her purse back, the man got to go to jail, and I got an idea.

I could just don a new costume and a new name, and be a new vigilante in a new town. But that would make news, and I needed to stay off the superhero radar. Well, technically, I needed to stay off the bat radar, but Batman had hacked the superhero one long before I entered the scene. If I couldn't fight crime as a vigilante, then I'd just be a cop.

The idea sat strangely with me. A cop? They'd have guns. And I'd been trained to stay the hell away from the police. Right, new idea.

Tech. I could be a lab rat. Speed up the justice system, make it more secure. Innovate, invent, and, above all, stay in the background. This, I could do.

So I changed my name and signed up for college. Some forged transcript got me into a small community college, some place that wouldn't look too closely. That, in turn, got me the recommendations and real transcripts I needed to transfer to a place like MIT.

And somewhere along the way, I picked up a sister.

I know, it surprised me, too.

I volunteered at the local youth center. There was this child I'd worked with on a fairly constant basis, and she was young and pretty and so very angry. Her mother had just died, her father long since gone, and she was alone and scared and, above all, familiar. I knew her pain, and she knew I knew.

I let her crash on my couch for a few nights while she got back on her feet, and haven't been able to get rid of her since. But I also know about siblings-who-aren't, and honestly, I could use someone to cling to, as well.

She knows who I am now, in this persona I've created for myself, but she has no idea who I was, or what I did. And if it's all the same to her, I'd like to keep it that way.

* * *

><p>The problem with my new team is that they're almost my team. I mean, Gibbs is almost Bruce, and Tony is almost Dick, and Ducky is so like Alfred that it hurts, sometimes. And I know I should be over it, but I can't help thinking that Tony will say this next, because that's what Dick would have said. Or that Gibbs will push for harder, for more, and assign training as punishment. But Tony will never be as tempered as Dick, because he's missing that darkness. And Gibbs will never push as hard, as much, as fast as Bruce, because Gibbs is only human, and I'm not sure Bruce ever was.<p>

It keeps me off balance around them. I'm sure they think I'm a stammering, stuttering fool, but I can't help it. And after a while, I don't try to. It makes good cover.

But the Timothy McGee of MIT never had to deal with danger or anything _real_, so it was easy to keep my past from present. And now I'm a field agent, and some things just don't stay hidden where they should. I'm not sure how this is going to end up playing out; I swore I was done with Robin, done with the people and the skills and the whole thing, but Fate does so like to make a man break his promises.

Well, anyway, here's to hoping.


	2. Five Times

Five Times Tim Wasn't Sure What His Last Name Was (And One Time He Knew For Sure)

* * *

><p><strong>5 That Time With The Dumpster<strong>

"Put the gun down," the guy says, voice high and edging higher. "Put it down! I'll shoot him! I will!"

Ziva doesn't put it down, but instead she raises her hands, slowly. Her gun is pointing up in her loosened grip. I know her speed and accuracy, but thank god this guy does not.

"Put it _down_!" He says shrilly, and takes another step closer to me. And okay, I've always hated being the hostage or being collateral, and there's a pretty easy way out.

"T-turn around!" The man tells me, and I do. Slowly, hands up, I turn and take the crucial step back that I need to be right on the roof's edge.

Of course Ziva would notice. "McGee!" she calls at me, which is pretty redundant, all told.

"Ziva," I say, swaying a bit. "I'm fine." And I step backwards.

The pull of gravity is oh so familiar, and I know I have just enough time to wink and say, "Take him down," before my head is below the roofline.

The day I can't fall properly is the day I hang up my—is the day I fully expect Bruce to pop up from nowhere just to glare at me.

There's the ledge I'd seen, and I get a foot onto it, using my knees to absorb the momentum. So the backflip comes easy, and my palms smack onto the fire escape's rail. A swing and grip-change lets me push off, ricocheting off the opposite wall.

I end up on the edge of the dumpster, already arching backwards for the final flip before I realize that, while Tim Drake could make that fall, Tim McGee couldn't.

So I sigh, and topple forward into the dumpster, turning to take the impact on my back. I'm going to stink for days, I just know it.

But Tony's rounding the corner just as I drag myself up over the lip of the dumpster, and he raises a shaky hand to say, "Got him, Boss," into his phone.

To me, he says, "Dammit, McGee, don't _do_ that. You almost gave Ziva a heart attack." But he still helps me down from the dumpster's edge. "You were almost a Probie Pancake."

I wasn't, I want to say. I've fallen farther and faster and this was nothing, nothing compared to then, I want to say. But for the first time in a long time, I notice my hands are perfectly steady and my mind is clear, and for now, at least, I feel oh so _alive_.

* * *

><p><strong>4 That Time With The Rope<strong>

I've been tied up before. Fairly regularly actually. I've been tied up, tied down, hog-tied, handcuffed, manacled, shackled, and chained with ropes and and tape and this one sticky substance that we never identified, and even plants. When you're trained by Mr. Miracle himself on Batman's dime, you end up learning how to escape even the most ridiculous bindings, and this was far from the worst situation I'd been tied up in.

This time, the three of us are in chairs, tied back to back to back, ropes on the legs and some kind of special cuffs for the hands.

I wait until Tony starts talking. It doesn't take long; it's his defense mechanism.

"Ziva?" he says. "You can pick that lock, right?"

I can't see her, but I know she's trying not to snap at him. "I am working in the dark from a bad angle on a lock I am unfamiliar with. Give me a moment."

Tony opens his mouth to say something else, and I use the sound of it to cover the quiet _pop!_ the dislocation of my thumb makes. Or would have covered it, if Tony hadn't changed his mind and shut his mouth.

"What was that?" Ziva asks, and Tony's instantly on alert.

"Just me," I say, and then I bite my lip to keep from making noise as I slip out of the cuff. I lose a layer of skin, but I'm free. I bring my hands up in front of me, the custom handcuffs hanging off one wrist, and, taking a deep breath, pop my thumb back into place.

A breath, a small sigh of pain escapes my control. But it doesn't stop me from drawing a knife and cutting my way free.

"I'm out," I report. "Hang on, guys, I'm coming."

"How did you get out of the cuffs?" Tony wants to know.

"Mine weren't ratcheted all the way," I lie, and, in the dark, I slip out of the room. The guard outside should have the key, and I slip into the shadows like a comfortable old coat. Up on the balls of my feet, light and quick and quiet as the dark, I hunt. The single guard falls with the first blow, and I blink, trying to reorient myself.

This isn't Gotham, and I repeat that until I remember it, and then toss the guy's pocket for the keys.

"Here," I say, "hold on." And first Ziva's, then Tony's cuffs fall open too. Ziva takes point, Tony takes rear, and I'm in the middle, the most protected position, as we head out of there.

It's nice of them, and I know they think it's necessary, but it makes me want to scream, sometimes.

* * *

><p><strong>3 That Time He Hotwired A Motorcycle<strong>

I don't have a problem with either Gibbs' or Ziva's driving skills. Anyone who can take a curve on two wheels and not flinch knows how to control a car. So Ziva's a bit more aggressive than is safe, but mostly, I'm fine.

I've been in the Batmobile when Bruce hits the nitro button. I've been in the Batplane when Dick's decided to do a barrel roll. Hell, my own R-Cycle could go well over two hundred miles an hour.

I can recognize serious driving skills, because I've got them, too.

What makes me clutch my seat 'til my knuckles are white isn't the speed, or the turns, or even the way they never seem to look at the road. No, what worries me isn't the people, but rather, the cars.

Because the Gibbsmobile isn't custom designed, and it isn't a race car. It wasn't built for what Gibbs puts it through. So I'm the one who makes sure it's taken to the shop regularly, and it's just possible that I maybe got down in there myself to reinforce a few things.

It's nice working on a car again, even if it's in secret. I'm thinking about buying myself a motorcycle, just to have something to tinker with on weekends.

Hey, everybody needs a hobby.

So that's why I'm spending some time admiring this cherry bike I'm hiding behind. It's not top-of-the-line, but it's still a sweet ride, and the owner's added some nifty bits here and there. I instinctively catalog the customizations, the make, model, color, license plate, identifying sticker on the side, and how to hotwire it, stop it, where to aim to hit the fuel tank, and whether or not popping a wheel during movement would be likely to be fatal.

But we're kind of in the middle of a sting, as I'm reminded by the sounds of gunfire. That'd be Tony and Ziva coming in from the front, while Gibbs and I are waiting around back, him in the alley, and me, well, behind a motorcycle. It was supposed to be the next car over, but hey. I need to keep making a few mistakes to cement my "Probie" status, and besides, it was pretty, okay?

"_They're headed for you guys!"_ Tony says over the communicator, just as a black pickup truck skids around the corner and heads for the warehouse.

"_Ziva!" _Gibbs says, _"Get back to the car; there's a driver!"_

"_We're under fire!"_ she replies, and the three men we're after come spilling out of the door, shooting wildly in every direction. _"I'm trying; which way are they headed?"_

"_North! Hurry, Ziva, they're getting away!"_

We spent two days with no sleep tracking these murdering bastards down, and that, combined with the oh-so-familiar phrasing has me moving on long-forgotten intinct.

Gibbs is aiming for the truck's tires as it slows to let the three guys pile into the bed, but the truck swerves towards him, and my fingers dig out the right color wires. The truck accelerates before Gibbs can draw a proper bead, but he's still firing. It's almost a surprise to taste the metal in my mouth as I strip the last wire, but then his gun's empty, and he's barking, "_Heading east out of the alley, hurry!_"

I pause, hesitate just a moment, just long enough to hear Ziva say in utter frustration, "_Not going to make it, Gibbs!" _So I touch the wires together, letting off sparks, and the engine growls to life.

"I got them," I say, and the chase is on.

"_McGee!"_ Gibbs barks in my ear, and I smile grimly.

"Heading north again, towards the interstate. Plate number 534-JGH. I'm on his tail," I report.

Ziva and Tony are saying stuff, but we hit the interstate, and I have to focus on traffic, so I tune out everything but Gibbs.

It's not my bike. It's not custom-made for me, and it hasn't got nitro, or all the other nice little goodies. It doesn't separate, or have the ergonomic, aerodynamic shape, but hell if it doesn't feel like being back on my R-Cycle again.

Sure, I'll have to do some fast talking when I get back, but right now, I've got a full tank, wind in my hair, and bad guys to chase.

I grin, and gun it.

* * *

><p><strong>2 That Time That Tony Broke Down, But Only Just A Little Bit<strong>

When Dick breaks down, there are two things you can do: you can let him hug you and tell him it's all right, which helps him but makes you feel ineffectual, or you shove him at Bruce, because he's the only one who can fix it.

So, after that mess with Jeanne, that's the formula I fall back on. It's likely that Tony operates the same way, only with less hugging. I figure I'll try talking to him, and if that doesn't work, go find Gibbs.

"Tony, look, I know how you feel, but—" I start, but Tony slashes his hand through the air in frustration, so I shut up.

"No, you don't. You _don't_ know how it feels to lose someone like that. She was, she was special, and I _lied _to her, and she didn't even know my real name. I made her fall in love with a guy who wasn't me, Tim. And then I lost her. She's gone, and she's not coming back, and she only barely knew my name. You don't know how it feels, _Probie_. So shove it, okay?"

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. Timothy McGee doesn't know how Tony feels, but Tim Drake still has nightmares about Stephanie, sometimes.

* * *

><p><strong>And That One Time That He Knew For Sure<strong>

I don't miss being in charge. I don't miss being a leader of a team. I'd much rather receive orders than give them.

What I do miss is working with people who know what I'm capable of.

Yeah, I know, it's my own fault. So sue me.

But half of what Gibbs throws my way is easy, and the other half is impossible. It's not really his fault that computers have advanced so far, so quickly, but it is his problem. And it's my own fault he gives Tony the physically tiring jobs.

"McGee!" he says one day. "My computer is loading its thing. Fix it." And I do.

"McGee!" he'll say someday. "Get me access to the CIA mainframe." And I will, though I shouldn't be able to.

Right now he's just said, "McGee, go get me a witness." And I'm on it, though it still settles strangely on my shoulders.

But Tony's taking off to do his task, and I part ways with Ziva with a glance and a wry smile. Our little group splits up, off to do our parts.

I prefer being deployed to deploying. And I don't miss being in charge of a team. But I watch my friends' backs as they leave, and I can't help it.

"Teen Titans, go," I murmur.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_To be continued_


	3. Four Times

**Four Times Tim Revealed a Little Too Much (And One Time No One Noticed)**

* * *

><p><strong>4 That Time With The Shirt Problem<strong>

I don't take my shirt off in front of them, not if I can help it.

They don't need to see that I'm solid instead of chubby. They don't need to see the definition in my arms, or my muscles, or my core, or the toning that can only come from years of rigorous daily practice.

They don't need to see the tanned skin, or the way I can change my posture and attitude to use my clothes as camouflage. They don't need to know I have a handful of specially reinforced undershirts, or sometimes wear a weighted belt, just to keep in shape.

They most certainly don't need to see the scars. There would be questions if they saw the bullet hole through my side, or the numerous scratches and grazes, the teeth-shaped marks in my shoulder, the distinctive thin raised lines across my back, the raw pink burns, or any of the other odd scars that litter my torso and body. I've still got that puckered gash in my thigh from that one knife, and it isn't very pretty.

Anyway.

So it's second nature for me to wear a tee under my work clothes, just in case. Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean you're safe, you know.

So after that one chase that went through a sewer and ended in a trash pile, we drag our tired butts into the locker room, and all I want is to take a shower and fall into a bed. Not even my bed in particular, just a bed, or, hey, any relatively soft horizontal surface.

"Aw, man, I'm never gonna get this smell out of my hair," Tony whines. I pull down the little bottle I keep in my locker and stare at it, debating between being clean and being a gentleman.

"At least your hair is short," Ziva grumbles. "I'll be in the shower for _hours_."

I sigh, and say, "Here," and toss the bottle over my shoulder.

She catches it. "What's this?"

I start unlacing my boots. "It'll take the stink off a skunk," I explain. "That's what it was designed for, actually. Use a little and you'll be fine."

"Huh," she says, turning the unlabelled bottle around. "It really works?"

"Hey, you got more of that?" Tony asks, leaning in to poke through my locker.

I shut the door in his face. "No," I say, conveniently forgetting the rather large batch of it sitting in my shower at home. I pull my button up over my head and toss it at his head.

"What's in it?" Ziva asks, and she sits to take off her own shoes.

"Uh, stuff." I'm debating about whether or not she wants to hear about the chemical formula when Tony says, "The Knights, huh?"

"What?" I ask, completely thrown.

He gestures at my shirt, and I look down at it myself, because I honestly have forgotten what shirt I put on this morning when I got dressed in the dark.

It's the Gotham Knights tee I picked up not too long after I left my old life behind. I don't ever wear it anymore; it sits at the bottom of my drawer. I must have grabbed it in my hurry this morning; I'd been meaning to do laundry.

"Yeah," I say past the lump in my throat. "I...lived in Gotham for a while." I spend a quick moment weighing whether changing the stinking shirt is worth the possibility of them seeing things they shouldn't.

"Gotham? Really" Tony asks, and I decide it's not worth it, since I'll have to take a shower when I get home anyway.

"Yes."

Ziva stands, and says, "I have heard of Gotham. It's not a very nice city, is it?"

Tony scoffs. "That's an understatement. Gotham is-"

I toss my bag over my shoulder and leave. I'm tired and sore and I stink, and I know that if I start defending Gotham now, I'll let slip things that won't match my cover story.

I love my team, but I love my city, too.

* * *

><p><strong>3 That Time With The Sign Language<strong>

I don't know how she does it, but Abby's got her metal pumped up through her speakers, bass vibrating the metal stands, _and_ is wearing oversized headphones with a different band blasting through them.

"Ouch," I say, but I can't even hear my own voice.

Gibbs moves around beside us, and Abby notices the movement in her peripheral vision. She turns to face us, pulls the headphones down, and says, "What?"

Well, I assume she says "What?" I can't hear her, but that's what lip-reading is good for.

Gibbs rolls his eyes to the side, sighs, and signs _too loud._

_You're too old,_ she signs back.

_Not,_ he signs, and _turn it down? Please?_

She grins, wide and pretty, and signs, _here, results._ She passes him a sheet of paper.

_Don't break your ears, _he signs, and takes it.

_Too late. The piercings aren't only decorative, mother,_ she teases, and I grin.

She glances at me, and I watch her lips say, "What's so funny, McGee?"

I shake my head. "Nothing," I say back, and smile at her.

She flashes, _did you know he could read lips?_ at Gibbs, who looks at me speculatively.

I put a confused look on my face, but he just signs, _good job_, kisses her on the cheek, and leaves.

"Bye!" I mouth, and she waves back.

Win one, lose one. Overall, still even.

* * *

><p><strong>2 That Time He Lied<strong>

The best way to lie to to show everyone how shitty a liar you are. Lie about the little things, and develop a set of tells. That way, when you deliver the necessary whoppers later, they're deceived for real.

I don't like lying, but it's been a part of my life since I don't even remember when. Where I've been spending my time, why I know who I know, hell, even my name.

I've had so very many names.

So everyone in the lab knows I can barely pass a polygraph. Everyone knows I stutter when I lie, and I blink too much. Everyone knows I can't lie to save my life, literally.

Everyone but Ducky, actually.

He's the one who's seen that scar on my forearm, and has the medical training to realize how bad it was, even though it's been treated very well. He knows that something like that means the skin was sliced clean through, all the way down to the bone, and it was deep and bled a lot and only didn't get infected through sheer luck and butler-y stubbornness. He confronted me about it at one point, if only to make sure it didn't cause motor impairment in my hand.

So when Gibbs notices it while I'm sticking a band-aid on my shoulder, I follow his gaze. He says, "McGee?"

"Oh, that?" I finish sticking the bandage on and hold my arm up for inspection. "I was sneaking out one night and got caught in the wire fence. My dad had to come rescue me, and that was pretty much the end of my sneaking-out career."

Tony snorts and proceeds to regale us with a tale about sneaking out to take a girl to a movie marathon, just as I knew he would, and I let him divert the attention.

Ducky catches my eye, and I smile a touch grimly and shrug.

He shakes his head at me, but he doesn't say anything, either.

I'll tell him about the sword that caused it, some day. If he asks.

* * *

><p><strong>1 That Time With The Costumed Criminal<strong>

We find the sailor where we expected to; tied to a chair in an empty apartment. He's unconscious, and Tony cuts his bonds, gets him under an arm and lugs him back down the stairs.

"Clear!" Ziva shouts from the next room over, and I open my mouth to echo it, but something catches my eye. It's black enough not to shine, but not black enough to blend, and it curves rather strangely...

Oh. Well. That explains a lot.

For a single second, I think it might actually be _her_, but I know better. It's just an amateur or a wannabe, someone capitalizing on Selina's reputation. Just like some kids tie towels around their necks and save their dolls, some few not-so-little kids go the opposite way. And take it from someone who knows; the black bodysuit thing? Can be _very_ distracting.

"Federal agent!" I announce, drawing everyone's attention. "Come out with your hands up!"

She tries to run, of course she does, but Gibbs is between her and the window. I look less threatening, I guess, because she doubles back and tries to take me out. But Ziva's come up behind me and has her gun leveled at the lady's pretty little pert nose.

I cuff her hands behind her, reciting the Miranda spiel. Ziva holsters her gun, and continues clearing the apartment. I listen with half an ear, keeping a firm grip on the chain between the cuffs. Something tells me this lady is as slippery as her catsuit.

Sure enough, she shifts her weight to the side, but I know that move, and step forward and sideways, getting myself out of range and unbalancing her. She deflates, then tries leaning back onto me, so I step a little further sideways, and let her stumble. That leads to the shift that means she's going for the elbow to the solar plexus, so I lean in close and lever her bound hands up a little higher.

"Oh," she purrs, just as Gibbs and Tony pass by. "You're very good, aren't you?"

"Should I take her to the car?" I ask, staring determinedly straight ahead.

"No!" Tony interrupts before Gibbs can say a word. "I'll take her to the car; you take the pictures."

"Er, boss...?" I try. Tony's a great cop, but this lady is a master escape artist, and she knows all the tricks.

Gibbs sighs and says, "Let him, McGee, or we're gonna be here all day."

"Thanks, boss!" Tony cheers, grabbing the handcuffs and tugging. "Now, what did you say your name was...?"

I shake my head, and start photographing the scene, as ordered. A minute or two later, I hear an engine revv, and tires squeal, and smile, ignoring the suspicious gaze boring into my back.

I'm not in the least surprised.

* * *

><p><strong>And That One Time He Got Kidnapped<strong>

They jump me at the gas station, and I let them.

There are only two guys, and their abduction is far from polished. These guys are amateurs, but they want an NCIS agent. I figure, better they get me than anyone else. I'm the most likely to leave them alive, after all.

They blindfold me, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing where we were going. I know which way's north, and I count the minutes off in my head, until I know exactly where we are. They don't even drive in circles, or take the long way, or anything, and they don't bother with a gag, but I don't try to talk anyway.

The two of them drag me out of the van and into an abandoned building of some sort, and proceed to do a crap job of tying me to a sub-par chair with low-quality rope.

There are five ways that I can think of off-hand to take these guys out, even while tied to the dinky chair. It is not the most effective kidnapping ever; on a scale of one to 'certain death', they ranked about a 'laughable'.

"This is ridiculous," I say. I'm already halfway out of the rope, but they don't need to know that.

The big, stupid guy knocks me one across the face. I let him, and move my head with the blow, but I can tell it's gonna bruise.

"Okay, _that_ was a mistake," I say conversationally as the last of my ropes fray and snap. Tall and dumber has just pulled out a cell, about to make the ransom call, unless I miss my guess, and I'm rarely wrong about these things.

I shake off the pathetic bindings, and I'm on them like the shadow I used to be. It takes me less time to beat and bind the both of them than it took the two of them to do the same to me.

Inspired, I grab my backpack, dig out my notebook, and scrawl "Idiot 1" and "Idiot 2" on separate sheets of paper, and stick them to the guys' shirts with safety pins, adding a "We're bad guys! Please arrest us!" letter as well.

I trigger the fire alarm and whistle as I exit the building, finding their van right where they left it, keys in the ignition. It's been a long time since I was kidnapped by such incompetent fools, and it makes for a nice change of pace, really.

I'm ten minutes late to work, and Tony stares at my swelling jawbone. "I, uh, tripped down the stairs," I tell him when he asks, and he laughs and assumes some lady slapped me. I don't bother to correct him; instead, I lean back in my chair and smile.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_To be continued in:_ _Three Times A Bat Came A-Calling (And One Time Tim Called Them)_


	4. Three Times

Three Times A Bat Came A-Calling (And One Time Tim Called Them)

* * *

><p><strong>3 That Time Gibbs Arrested Dick<strong>

I follow Gibbs in, turning to close the door. I hear a deep breath from behind me, and place my back to the wall, seeing our suspect for the first time.

And then I have to fight down the urge to laugh, or cry, I'm not quite sure, because he may be our suspect, but there was absolutely no way that Dick is our killer.

But Dick is a professional, and, when I don't meet his gaze, he doesn't let his eyes stick.

"Agents," Dick greets us, smiling. "It's good to see you; I've been waiting for some time."

Gibbs takes that as the direct statement it is, but I lived with Dick and Bruce for years. I know how to read below the lines. Dick and I used to laugh about it; we'd call it 'speaking Bat'.

Gibbs makes a noncommittal noise. "Do you recognize this man?" he asks, flicking a photo across the table.

Dick picks the photo up, and when he says, "No," I believe him.

"I don't believe you," Gibbs says, and Dick's eyes flick to me. I try to keep my face impassive, but he always could read me like a book.

"Sir," he starts, always the polite one. "I have never seen this man before. I'd love to cooperate in your investigation in any way I can, but I don't know him."

"A helpful civilian," Gibbs says, words drenched in disbelief and scorn. I almost wince. Dick isn't a civilian. Not since he was eight. Dick sends me a smile from the corner of his eye.

"Yessir," he says. "I was taught to always help a person in need, and to respect authority. I'll be happy to answer any and all questions."

Gibbs glowers at him distrustfully, and I feel like crying. _I know you would have helped, but I couldn't make you choose, _I think at him really hard. The corner of his eyes softens, and his lips twitch up, just a bit. He knows I have a reason, and I know I am forgiven.

That makes me feel even sicker. Dick shouldn't forgive me. He shouldn't love me. Everyone I love dies.

"Is that so?" Gibbs murmurs, opening the file on the table. "Where were you on the night of March 12th, from the hours of nine to eleven?"

I watch as Dick casts his mind back, just like with those exercises Bruce used to spring on us. "I got off of work at seven," Dick says slowly, eyes flicking to me. "I work at a youth center, teaching children acrobatics and things."

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in my smile. Dick has always been good with kids. Figures he'd end up teaching. He sees, and continues, smiling a bit as well. "They have a pretty sweet set up, with some tumbling mats, a set of rings, trampolines, hell, they've got a trapeze."

"That's great," Gibbs says in a tone that means it is anything but. "And then?"

"And then I went to dinner at my boss's house." Dick rattles off the name and address, writing it down on the pad, too. "His wife Charlotte makes a mean casserole. There was also Charlotte's friend's daughter. She keeps trying to set me up," he explains, and I twitch. I make a note to snag the contact info he's written, and let Charlotte know to invite a redhead to dinner next time.

"There you go," he says, sliding the pad to Gibbs, but the words are meant for me. I'm surprised to find I'm smiling. And just like that, I have to blink, because my eyes are itching in an annoyingly familiar way.

"And then?" Gibbs prompts. I'm glad I'm not supposed to be saying anything, because my throat is tight, and I have to swallow.

"And then I went home," Dick says, invitation clear in his voice. "Got in about ten thirty, ten forty-five. I talked to my landlord, the nosy old bugger. So interested in anybody's life but his own." And he chuckles a bit.

_Come home. I don't care about whatever you've done, or think you've done. We forgive you._

My original plan, the one I'd made up when I saw who our 'suspect' was, was to tough it out, and meet up with Dick later. But, as Gibbs gathers up his papers, pointedly not thanking him, Dick stands up and opens his arms.

Dick gives the best hugs in the whole world. Better than Abby's, better than Dad's, and far, far better than Bruce's.

So, though I consciously make the decision not to hug him, I'm not terribly surprised when my body flings itself into his arms.

"Oh, _Dick,_" I say into his shoulder, and he pulls me closer and pets my hair.

"S'okay, Tim," he murmurs. "It'll all be okay."

I don't cry, but I sniffle all over his sweater. And I believe him.

"McGee?" Gibbs says in a disbelieving voice. "What the hell is going on here?"

"I see why you like him," Dick says, laughing, before he squeezes me tight and lets me go.

That's about when the door opens and Tony steps in, Ziva on his heels. "Uh, boss," he starts.

"Tony?" Dick asks, and then, "Hey, man, I was wondering where you got to!"

"Dick!" Tony says, startled, and then laughs. "Long time, no see!" They do some complicated high-five fistbump male bonding ritual thing.

Gibbs throws his hands in the air. "Does everybody know this guy but me?" he asks plaintively.

"I don't," Ziva adds helpfully.

"I worked with Dick while I was in Baltimore," Tony says. "Had some crazies down from Bludhaven, and Officer Grayson was one of the guys who came down to help us out. But, wait, you know Tim?"

"S'my little brother," Dick says, throwing an arm around my neck. "And hey, uh, you let him get hurt, and, much as I like you, I will end you. Mmkay?"

"You're related?" Ziva asks, looking between the two of us.

"No, not really," I say, at the same instant Dick says, "Yes, we are."

Everyone stares at us for a second

"Depends on your definition of 'related'—" I start again, and Dick cuts me off, repeating firmly, "Yes, we are."

And I can't outstubborn Dick, no one can, so I sigh and repeat after him, "Yes, we are."

Dick beams at me, and Gibbs says, "Fine, whatever. Just don't leave town, and you're free to go," before he storms out of the room

"Yessir!" Dick throws after him rather nonchalantly, and I smack his arm until he lets me go.

"I though you only had a sister?" Tony asks, planting a hip against the table.

"Cass has been here?" Dick asks me.

I wave a negative at him. "I, uh, kind of got adopted by this orphan girl..."

Dick throws back his head and laughs, and I look over just in time to see Ziva trace his back with her eyes.

I sigh, because, really, I didn't need a more complicated life. But Dick pokes me and mentions how I'm starting to take after Bruce, and I still have to smile.

I'd managed to forget how much I missed Dick, somehow. And for the life of me, I can't remember why I tried so hard to cut him out.

A week or so after that, a package shows up on my desk. Given that Dick could have easily found my home address, I figure that the contents are safe to open at work, so I slit the tape, even though Tony's practically leaning over my shoulder.

There's an envelope that had a plastic card in it; Dick wants me to have access to my old accounts in Gotham, then, and probably the Wayne accounts, too. I sigh, and tuck the envelope into my desk drawer before diving back into the box.

There's a tupperware full off cookies, and I about die, because Dick sent me Alfred's cooking, and he is still the _best_ big brother _ever_. I tear the lid off, and bask in the glory of baked chocolatey goodness. Tony sticks his hand in the container, and I have to stop myself from snapping at him, and have to talk myself into offering Ziva one. But just one.

There's also a framed picture, but I'm not ready to look at that just yet, so I slide it in my drawer, too.

"Oh my _gawd_," Tony says, mouth full. "That is. Wow. Can I have another one, thanks."

The box is knocked off the desk and forgotten in the ensuing struggle for control of the tupperware, and I'm smiling, and it's almost like dealing with annoying siblings again.

Almost. But not quite as good as the real thing.

* * *

><p><strong>2 That Time He Was Being Stalked<strong>

It doesn't take me long to realize I've got a stalker.

Well, I don't think it does, but, since I don't know when she started, it's kind of hard to tell. Anyway, I start to notice the very few tells—the shadows are deeper, and the wind is louder, and that spot in the center of my back itches.

It makes me smile, to know that she's still willing to watch over me.

It takes my team much longer to notice.

Finally, walking back from an interview, Ziva says, "Tim, I believe you are being stalked."

"Hmm?" I look up from the notes I'm taking.

"There's this girl, I think. I almost can't see her, but I think she's after you."

Tony jumps in. "Yeah, I've seen her from the corner of my eye occasionally. I thought it was just a shadow, though."

I laugh at them. "I'm not being stalked, guys, seriously. Have you been getting enough sleep?"

A pebble hits me in the back of the head.

"Ow, geez," I say loudly to the scenery. "Yes, I knew you were there, okay? You didn't have to toss a rock at me!"

Apparently she did, because this time she pegs me with a flower. I automatically catalog the bloom, its preferred climate, its meanings, its uses and side effects and how much it's selling for currently.

"Yes, thank you," I tell a nearby tree. "I miss you too, okay? Stop by for tea later, or something."

Ziva blinks. "So you are being stalked?"

"No. Yes. No," I sigh. "It's complicated. It's just how she shows her love, no big deal."

They both stare at me.

"And I thought my family was messed up," Tony mutters.

"You have _no _idea," I say, tucking the flower in my pocket. I'll press it when I get home.

* * *

><p><strong>1 That Time Bruce Showed Up For No Reason<strong>

"Tim," the voice barks in that familiar way that means 'front-and-center _now_'.

Apparently, half a lifetime of normality is not enough to erase the half a lifetime of training, because I'm over my desk and standing at parade rest before I even process that Bruce Wayne is standing in the middle of my squadroom.

He looks at me for a second, and says, "Are you—"

He'll never say 'happy' or 'content', so I save him the trouble and say, "Yessir."

"And you're—?"

I'm safe as can be, and he knows it, so I say, "Yessir."

He looks me over for a moment, so I do him the same favor. He's favoring his left side just slightly, and I'm surprised to note the grey in his hair.

I know Bruce is human, but I do forget that, sometimes.

He shifts his shoulders slightly, in that way that means he doesn't want to ask whatever he's about to ask, but feels it's necessary. "And your—"

I take pity on him, because I know that our identities are a priority, and I know he has to ask, even if he'd rather this just be a social visit. "All the way down," I say, reverting back to the code as easy as blinking.

He nods slowly, understanding the term for 'undercover; not compromised'. We stand in silence for a moment.

I know Tony and Ziva are staring. I can hear the quiet that means they're not doing their work. But I don't dare take my eyes off of Bruce. I'm not sure if I'm afraid he'll vanish, or if I just don't want to break our little stare-down first.

"Dick told me," he says, and his eyes slide down and to the left.

"Coincidence," I inform him, though neither of us believes in coincidence. There's an awkward moment, so I add, "Cass stopped by."

"She said as much," he mutters, looking around now, and at everything but me.

"No, she didn't," I return, and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Granted." He locks his gaze back on me, and I find I'm the one looking down and away. So I bring my eyes back up, meeting him stare for stare.

I will never not be a Bat, but Bruce doesn't really have a place in my new family. I hate that, and I love it, and I don't really know what to do or how to feel anymore.

Finally, he says, "Lunch." It's the statement-not-a-question-that-had-better-get-a-'yes' thing, and I hadn't realized how much I missed the language and the flow and all the little puzzles that made living with Bruce and Co. so fun.

So even though it's only eleven in the morning, I say, "Sure. Let me get my bag."

I wave my cell at Tony as a 'call if something comes up' gesture, and grab my bag, suddenly in a hurry to get Bruce out of here and catch up on all the gossip I'd missed while living in hiding.

We're waiting at the elevator when it opens and Gibbs steps out, and my entire worlds turn sideways, kind of.

Gibbs looks at the two of us, sees the bag over my shoulder and asks, "McGee?"

Bruce steps forward, and I fall into flank him, habits I'd spent years stifling now back in full force. Bruce smiles, and extends a hand.

"Special Agent Gibbs, is it? Pleasure to meet you." Gibbs shakes his hand, and then looks at his own hand as if surprised that it moved on its own. I hide my smile; Bruce has that effect on people.

"I was just going to steal Tim, here, if you don't mind. Just for an hour or two, to catch up. Family stuff, you see..." Bruce has got a hand on my shoulder, and we're navigating around Gibbs into the elevator.

"Where have you been?" Gibbs asks, and Bruce turns us to face him again. "Tim has been on my team for years, and he doesn't mention family, ever. And now you're all just popping out of the woodwork?"

And that's my cue to flush and say, "It was my fault. There was a...misunderstanding. But things are better now."

Gibbs eyes me, trying to see if I'm lying, and then turns to Bruce.

Bruce cuts him off by staring him in the eye and saying, "Dick told me about you. Thank you for taking care of my boy."

And this time the heat in my cheeks isn't faked, and I turn a bit towards Bruce, eyes questioning.

Gibbs seems to be thinking about something, but when Bruce tips me a nod, and I smile, really smile for the first time in god knows how long, it's enough for him.

"You taught him well," Gibbs says, and steps out of the way. "Be back by two."

"Thanks," I manage, and stumble a bit over the elevator entrance.

Bruce catches my arm to steady me, and says, "It's been quieter since you left."

I take that for what it means, and say, "I missed you, too."

* * *

><p><strong>And That One Time He Called Them<strong>

"This is impossible," Abby says, sucking on the straw of her Caf-Pow! She'd emptied it a while ago, and kept forgetting. "Tim, I don't think we can do this."

"Sure we can," I murmur encouragingly. "We'll find him."

She sniffs. "I...I can't _lose_ him, Tim, I can't. Gibbs has been like a father to me, and I just can't..."

And I know that she can't, and I know that I can't, but I do know who could.

I was doing so well for myself, too. But I've been where she is, and I can't let it end the same way.

So I say, "We can do this," and I activate the program I wrote ages ago.

"What are you doing?" she asks, turning tired eyes towards me.

"It's just a little automated hacking bot. Gets me into the system."

And it would only work this once. Only because I knew this system inside and out, or used to. And also because I wasn't actually trying to get inside the system.

"But, how can you get into their system when we can't find their...That's not our perps', that's, whoa, that's amazing. Whose is that?"

And then the shit hits the fan, and it does so at the exact velocity I'd calculated it would.

"Holy shit!" Abby exclaims, hands flying to the keys. "We're being hacked back!"

I grab her wrists. "Yeah, we are. And it's a good thing. Just wait."

She's sputtering, but I ignore her. The program follows my trace right back through our system, and pauses where I'd paused. My NCIS profile flashes onto the screen just for a second, and I know she's found me. She must have activated one of her nice little profilers, because next flashes up my resume, my MIT transcript, the community college one, the fake ones, and then, finally, it hesitates on the last official school photo I took.

She had me, had followed my trail, and I knew she wouldn't let me go a second time. That thought doesn't bother me as much as it might.

But given the way I'd contacted her, she knew I needed help, and she dived right back in. My bot had been passed through the email, and it didn't take her but a minute to figure out what I was asking.

"Whoa," Abby says, staring at the photo before it flashes away. "Was that you?"

"Yeah," I sigh, and wait. It only takes about twenty minutes, and Abby and I watch lines of code go flying by, and trackers and tracers dart here and there, and then an address flashes on the screen. Two little windows pop up, one a picture of a nice old manor, elegant in its old age, still stately. No one would ever be able to tell that over half of it had been rebuilt from scratch not too long ago.

But that is closed out quickly, and I know what it means anyways. But I'm not quite ready to go back, not yet.

The other picture was a dark building, tottering and half dead. Then my phone beeps that a text message has arrived, and I confirm that the addresses match.

"What's that?" Abby asks, staring.

"That's where Gibbs and Tony are," I say, and she's out of her seat in seconds.

My phone says, "Please exit building. Then turn right."

In the middle of gearing up, Abby says, "I thought your phone didn't do GPS?"

I smile. "It doesn't."

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_To be continued in: Two Times Tim Almost Told Someone About Robin (And One Time Someone Found Out All On Their Own)_

_Also, have an alternate Babs scene:_

I was just finishing up a report when a window opened itself up onto my desktop and an angry female voice shrieked "TIMOTHY DRAKE-WAYNE-MCGEE YOU BASTARD!"

Every head in the room turned my way, people popping up over cubicles and around walls. "Hello, Babs," I said. "Nice to hear from you. Wanna turn the volume down a notch?"

"NO!" she shouted, but dialed it back anyways. "What the hell were you thinking, just vanishing like that? I was out of my mind with worry! YOU DUG OUT YOUR TRACKER."

I grinned. I remember throwing it into some river somewhere. "You found it?"

"In a trout," she confirmed. "Dick took it to Zatanna to get her to turn it back into you."

I stared blankly at the screen a second, imagining Dick, wild-eyed and wet, attempting to catch a trout and then shoving a fish at Zatanna.

I put my head on my desk and laughed.


	5. Two Times

**Two Times Tim Almost Told Someone About Robin (And One Time Someone Found Out All On Their Own)**

* * *

><p><strong>2 That Time Ducky Got Suspicious<strong>

"Is there something I can help you with, Timothy?" Ducky asks. "Only, you've been pacing my morgue for the past twenty minutes, and it is rather distracting."

"Sorry," I say contritely, and sit down.

Thirty seconds later, I'm up and moving again, because sitting still is a skill I learned from Dick. Which is to say, I completely fail at it.

Finally, Ducky sighs. "Come, sit," he says. "Have some tea."

I wince, and I'd like to apologize and leave, but the morgue is...comforting. It reminds me of the Cave. Of home.

But Ducky's pulling out a tea set, so I take it from him and brew the tea. I take my time and do it properly, just like Alfred taught me.

I pour, and mix in the one cream, two sugars that I know Ducky takes. He looks at it suspiciously, and I realize I misstepped, because he doesn't know why I know how he takes his tea. I'm finding the situation both comfortingly familiar and wildly out of control. I shouldn't have let it get this far, but now that it is, well.

I take a sip of tea, and breathe, trying to bring it back, center myself, and regain my balance.

Ducky looks at me closely. "What's the matter?" he asks, and I want to tell him. I really, really, do, but I know that's a Bad Idea.

"It's just—a bad day for me," I say instead. "Sorry."

"A bad day, or a bad date?" he asks, and dammit, but I knew he'd do this, knew he'd be all, all understanding and compassionate and _nice_.

I have no defense against _nice_.

"I—I lost him," I admit. "And then I lost her, and, even worse, I almost lost—others. And I can't go visit their graves, or honor them, and I _miss_ them, and—" I take a deep breath. "It's a bad week for me."

"Sounds like it's been a bad few years," he says, in that studied kind of casual way.

I giggle, and laugh, and laugh and laugh and laugh and can't breathe and I laugh and it's been an awful long time since I got hysterical like this.

I really try not to. Laughing uncontrollably like that reminds me of—

Well. You know.

A hand falls on my shoulder, heavy and comforting, and Ducky says, "Breathe, Timothy. Breathe."

I do. It takes a while, but I come out of it. Being here helps; the smell of tea and disinfectant and the comfort of the sterile floors and shiny metal beds.

"Ducky, I—" I start, but then stop. I don't know what to say. _I think I'm a little broken,_ or maybe _I don't know what I'm doing here,_ or even _I gave up my childhood and I've done things I shouldn't've, and the things I've seen still haunt me sometimes and god help me but I'm pretty sure I'd do it all again._

"It's okay, dear boy," Ducky says, and I appreciate that he doesn't try to hug me. "It's okay. You don't have to say anything; it's fine."

So I swallow the words and the tears and the tea, and nod. It isn't really fine, and we both know it, but that's okay.

I'm used to it.

* * *

><p><strong>1 That Time Gibbs Confronted Him Without Ever Actually Saying Anything<strong>

"Nothing down here!" Tony calls, and I glance over the edge. He's on the sidewalk, and I can't spot Ziva, but I know she's somewhere around.

I'm supposed to be casing the next alley over, but there were scuff marks on the fire escape, so I jumped for it and climbed.

It's so nice to be on the rooftops again.

And it's totally worth it, because I find a hat that must be the suspect's. Lots of DNA, possible fingerprints, and definite proof that he'd been here. I take some pictures, bag and tag, and then head back over to my designated alley.

There's no one there, so I indulge myself a little and just jump. Bounce here and ricochet there, and tuck in and turn-turn-turn-touch, and I land it, bending all the way to the pavement, letting my knees take the momentum. I could roll it out, but I saw what was on the ground here earlier, so I elect not to.

I stand, easy, and swing the bag a little, smiling. Haven't lost it yet.

That's when Gibbs steps forward out of the shadows, and suddenly my little stunt seems so stupid. I can't believe myself sometimes.

I meet his eyes, and see the question there.

"Er," I manage, and then wave the bag at him. "Found something?"

He stares at me, so I hold out the bag. "It's a hat," I explain. "Think it belongs to our perp."

He looks at me, looks me over, and glances up to the five-story roofline, and back at me.

I almost tell him, _sorry about that,_ but he doesn't ask. I meet his gaze for a second, and sigh, and hold the bag a little higher.

I might have said any number of things, if he'd asked.

But he doesn't ask, so I don't tell.

* * *

><p><strong>And That One Time He Couldn't Handwave It Away<strong>

"Hey, Tim?"

I sigh, pushing away from my typewriter. Babs can't hack my typewriter. "Yeah?"

Sarah's standing in the doorway, and my heart stutters when I see what's in her hand. "What's this?" she asks.

"It's—"

"It's got a _blade_ on it," she says right over me. "Tim, it's a _weapon_!"

"It's just durable plastic!" I lie, and take it from her carefully. "Look!" I flop my wrist forward, and the batarang just falls to the ground. "See? It doesn't even fly!"

I'm a very good liar. I used to lie to Batman, even, once or twice. I can spin wild stories and look you in the eye while I tell them. Where I fall down is lying to people I live with. I can lie convincingly, but I don't like to live a lie, and it's hard to keep up a story you yourself don't believe in.

"And this?" she says a little wildly, waving around a rather gun-shaped object.

I get in as close as I dare. "Hey, Sarah, put that down! Please, careful—"

"It's a _gun,_ Tim! Why would you have—"

"No! It's actually...!" but she accidentally triggers it, giving herself a faceful of green smoke.

"...it's a gas gun," I sigh, and catch her before she hits the floor.

Maybe I can convince her it was all a dream, I think as I tuck her in. It's worked for me before.

But it doesn't. When she wakes up the following morning, the first thing she does is freak out about missing class. The second thing she does is freak out about being asleep for a whole day, and it's all my fault, and that gun, and oh her god I have a gun.

So I sit on the edge of her bed and grab hold of her hands. "Look," I start. "I'm sorry. I never wanted you to see this, or know about it."

She starts hyperventilating, and her voice reaches a new high pitch that makes me wince. "Are you in some kind of trouble oh my god Tim you're not a secret hitman or something are you because—"

"No," I say, and almost laugh. "It's something much, much worse."

Her breathing practically stops.

"I'm a superhero," I whisper at her, and she blinks. Then she shrieks and smacks me with her pillow, and I wince. Girl has an arm on her.

"Seriously Tim I cannot believe you why are you playing with me this way Tim be serious!" She's still hitting me, and I'm blocking as best I can, but pillows have this tendency to melt around your arms and still manage to hit you.

So I pounce, and disarm, flip and pin her.

She's quiet a moment, breathing heavily into her comforter, and then says, far too calmly, "Tim?"

"Yes, Sarah?" I ask, loosening the hold. She has enough room to wiggle, but not break out of it.

"Tim," she started. "I swear to god, what are you even saying, tell me it's a joke."

I'd really, really like to be able to, but I've seen her at her weakest and held her through the nightmares and provided for her and lived with her and laughed at her and loved her, and really, she, more than anyone, deserves this from me.

I sigh, and let her go. "I wish," I say. "I wish I were lying."

She doesn't get up, and just curls in tighter on her side. She doesn't say anything, so I continue.

"I got lucky, and met a hero young. I was a sidekick for ages, and then a hero in my own right." My mouth twists a bit on the words, and I correct, "A vigilante. I don't know that we were ever...heroes.

"We were what was needed."

She hugs her pillow closer and manages, "You've been lying to me. I thought I could trust you. I thought that you, at least—" and she bites off the words, but I know what she was gonna say.

_That you, at least, wouldn't betray me._

"I haven't," I sigh. This is a tricky moment. "I just...didn't mention it. It's not who I am anymore. I haven't been for a long, long time. I'm the same person you've always known; I haven't changed."

And while that's true, we both know her perception of me has been undeniably altered.

"Lying..." she murmurs to her pillow, and shoves her face in it to hide from me.

"I saved people," I say, staring at my hands. "I did my best to be the best person I could be, and now that I do it on the right side of the law, that hasn't changed."

"So all those late night game sessions..."

"Yes. Sometimes I go out on patrol." I can't help it. I don't wear red and yellow, and I don't flaunt it or try to create a legend; I'm just trying to bring a little peace to the people. This is my city now, and I want to makes sure it's safe, and that I know every alley.

I don't play nearly as many games as my team thinks I do.

She shudders, and I reach for her shoulder.

She flinches, and I can't tell you how much that hurts.

"Why?" she demands, still not looking at me. "Why be...that? Why then? Why now? Why _you_?"

"Why not me?" I ask simply. "Who else would do it? Everyone needs a miracle sometimes, and if I can help a single person even just once...is that not worth it?"

She sits up suddenly, still clutching the pillow. "Stop it. Don't go out anymore. Don't."

"No."

She slaps me, and I let her.

"The city needs me," I say gently.

"_I_ need you," she whispers. "What if you don't come back?"

"I always will," I promise, even though we both know I'm lying. "After all, I have a reason to come home, don't I?"

She throws herself at me, at her big brother, so I hug her close, and pretend not to notice when her tears soak my shirt.

* * *

><p>...<p>

_Thanks so much, guys, for reading and the wonderful reviews! Also, I'd like to take a moment to address a few points here:_

_Tim Drake here is based mostly off the Robin (v2) comic book run, with elements pulled in from the Teen Titans, Batman, and Nightwing comics, as well. But this is all comic-verse, as I don't recall an animated show with Tim as Robin. Furthermore, more backstory and explanations are forthcoming, promise.  
><em>

_Yes, we will be seeing more Bat!Family. But I _would_ like to posit that the team, as of yet, do not know any of the other Bats' proper names, except for Dick, who has always downplayed his Wayne connections and wealth. There will be more reveals as we go, because I can't not do that. But never fear, Bruce and Dick and Cass and Babs shall return, but only after_...

_That One Time Jason Showed Up (And It All Pretty Much Went To Hell)_

_See you soon!  
><em>


	6. That One Time

**That One Time Jason Showed Up (And It All Pretty Much Went To Hell)**

* * *

><p>"Yes," Ziva is saying as I round the corner. "I think this will be a good thing."<p>

Tony sighs and rolls his eyes. "No, it really won't. Hey, McGeek, you don't think it'll be a good thing, do you?"

"I think agreeing to anything you say without knowing what I'm agreeing to would be a bad thing," I say, dropping my bag by my desk. "What are we talking about?"

"Haven't you seen the news?" Tony asks, rocking back in his chair. "Seems we finally got us our very own vigilante."

"What?" I yelp, and I attack my computer, trying to get it to load multiple news sites all at once, and faster.

Ziva shakes her head. "I have never met a 'hero', but I admire their work. They may be helpful."

"Superman is pretty cool, but some of these others really toe the line. They're trying to steal our jobs! If they want justice, they should work with the law, not against it. Like this Batman from Gotham, he's been on the Most Wanted list since forever," Tony says, and tosses a paper ball at my head.

"Batman's just an urban legend," I say absently, the old excuse flowing from my lips without thought.

Ziva looks towards me. "I am not so sure; I have seen photos of this Batman and this Robin. I believe they are real."

And that's when the page finally loads the admittedly blurry photo. Three crooks tied up and dangling from a lightpole, and a man on a rooftop behind them. He's got one leg braced on the low rim, and is wearing black clothes with splotches of brown here and there. It's not very clear, but it really doesn't have to be the best quality for me to make out the red smudge where the head should be.

I let my head fall into my arms and mumble obscenities at my desk.

"McGee? Is something wrong?" Ziva sounds concerned. I wave a hand at her, then lift my head, sitting properly in my seat again.

"As much as I hate to agree with Tony, this is a bad, bad, very not good thing," I say. "That's the Red Hood."

Tony scoffs. "Of course you'd be a superhero fanboy."

I ignore that through the power of long practice and continue. "He's well known for moving into different cities and stealing other vigilante's identities, but mostly because he doesn't mind killing the worst of the criminals. Our body count is about to go through the roof."

And, okay, so that's an exaggeration. Jason only kills the scum, the worst-of-the-worst, or, occasionally, to make a point. And while Gotham's unusually high body count does skyrocket when Jason comes to town, well, that's just Gotham. My worry is that, here in DC, the villains aren't always the bad guys, and the bad guys are never the worst guys. Everyone's working for someone who's being manipulated, and it's a delicate web of corruption and deceit.

I've been working on a database, and the status quo is fairly steady. I've been mapping out the web of crime, connecting delicate threads to invisible points. Jason's pretty much gonna wave a big stick around and see who reacts.

I mourn my research already.

But it might not be Jason; it might just be some poser in a red helmet. I cross my fingers and wish that really, really hard.

Just in case, though, I start carrying my full arsenal the day after I see the photo.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'd been going out unarmed or anything, but over the years, I'd stopped carrying a few things. Some days, I only had a knife or two, and didn't even carry any explosives. Of course, I always had a grapple line and a handful of smoke bombs, but it's fairly hard to conceal a bo staff under a jacket, even a collapsible one.

Of course, that wouldn't stop me if it _was_ Jason who'd come around.

Just because I don't go rooftop hopping in tights and a mask anymore doesn't mean I've grown stupid.

I keep tabs on this new guy, just in case. I'm back to stalking the streets and skulking on rooftops at night. But I don't ever catch up to him in the act, so I bide my time and wait, living my life and doing my job.

There's this case we've been working; a hand turned up. Fingerprints were of a Naval officer, so they kicked it to us. Only no one has seen the guy for the past week, and he's pretty much disappeared off the face of the earth.

After talking to witness after liar after family member, we finally get a lead, pointing us in the direction of some serious high-class drug dealers. This gang is vicious, and they've already spilled far more blood than necessary to claim their turf. They murder and backstab and sell drugs to children, and no one's been able to find their hideout at all.

Then we get a hit on our BOLO, and find his car in a parking lot of a warehouse. Why we have so many empty warehouses in DC, I'll never know, but it's still not half as many as Gotham has. Ziva leads the way in, and pronounces it clear, even as Tony and I head for the body laying in the middle of the floor.

"Looks like our sailor was a drug mule," Tony says, and I kneel down next to him. "See there?" he points out.

I'm inclined to agree, but I'm much more concerned about the _click!_ that's just sounded from behind us.

"I'd suggest not moving," says the voice, the familiar voice that still echoes in my dreams sometimes. We both put our hands up, nice and slow.

"Who are you?" Tony asks, and my hand inches towards the back of my neck, wondering if I can get to the bo staff I've got strapped there.

And then, because of course this situation needed to get worse, there's another _click!_ and Gibbs says, "Federal agent. Drop the weapon."

But Jason likes to operate under the assumption guilty until proven innocent, and he's not afraid to shoot first and ask questions later. He's highly intelligent, but even as Robin, detective work was never his strong suit. And I know my team can't take him, because rogue or not, Jason is still a Bat in every way but family.

So I wait for the creak of leather that means he's turned his head, and then I rock backwards, overbalancing onto my curved spine and using it as a pivot to kick Jason in the back of the knee. My other foot sweeps around to land in the meat of his thigh, adding momentum, and he goes down hard.

A roll and twist and I'm back on my feet before he is, kicking his gun out of the way, towards Tony. I know he's got a second, though, and maybe a third. Plus who knows what else he's packing these days.

He recovers, and the fight is joined in earnest. He swings a punch at me, perfect form, fast as hell, but Bruce is stronger, faster, and I duck away and land a kick.

He feints right and I feint going for it, but his elbow comes up like I knew it would, and I score a hit on his side. I can almost see the training kick in, and he slams his elbow in, catching my hand and using it to close.

It's a good plan for him, because he's quick and clever and oh so strong. But I trained for longer and with much more variety, and he hasn't got a single ploy that can get me. So when he closes the distance, intent on going mano-a-mano where he'll have the advantage, I overbalance myself and fall back and down.

If he'd have let go, I'd have rolled out of reach, but he follows me down. A shifting of weight and I let him fall stomach-first into my knee, and then I slam his helmet into the concrete.

I scrabble away, letting us both catch our breath.

"McGee?" Gibbs snaps. "What's going on?"

But Jason's back on his feet, though I know his head must be ringing. "You fight like a Bat," he observes as we circle, obviously watching me for tells.

And I know it and he knows I know it, so I give it to him anyways. "And you fight like a_ dead_ Bat," I shoot back, at once an insult and a dead giveaway.

It takes him a second, but then he laughs. "Well, I'll be damned! If it isn't little Timmy, all grown up!"

I sigh, still on guard. "What are you doing here, _Jason_?"

"You know this man?" Gibbs asks, voice hard.

"S'my little brother!" Jason crows, and he straightens out of stance, approaching me slow and open. I know he's going for the noogie, and I'm not inclined to let him. But Gibbs still has his gun out, and Tony's aiming Jason's pretty pretty pistol, and Ziva's got a bead from across the floor.

I play along so they don't shoot him in the head. Because no one gets killed on my watch, not even psychopathic murdering vigilante ex-brothers.

I'd like to say I'm not his brother, not even related, but in the end, it's not true. "How many brothers do you have, McGee?" Gibbs asks in exasperation, but at least he holsters his weapon.

"Just the three," I say, stepping back out of Jason's reach again.

Jason says, "Wait, he got a new one?"

"Yes, and this one's biological. Nastier than you."

"Oh, like _hell_," Jason says, and makes as if to leave.

"What were you doing here, anyways?" I ask.

"Oh, right. I think this place is the dealers' hideout. According to my information, they should be arriving any second, so I thought you were them."

"Any second...?" I repeat, and that _would_ be when the doors slam closed and the lights cut off.

"Heads up," Jason whispers in the dark. He moves right, so I go left, and we circle around outside Tony and Gibbs.

The two agents have drawn their guns, but are keeping them painted at the floor. "Any information you could share would be nice," Gibbs drawls.

Jason breaks the situation down for us, speaking in a low murmur and backing off on the sibilants. The two of us keep circling, like an old pattern that I forgot that I knew.

For all he's volatile and unpredictable, and also possibly slightly loony, I trust Jason to have my back against anyone but himself. Because whatever else he might be, at the end of the day, he was still a Robin.

We Robins aren't something to be taken lightly.

I'm coming up on Ziva, so I whisper, "Here," and touch her arm. She follows me back to the others, and takes up a stance beside the two. She's more used to the dark than the others, so I mentally dub her their guard and toss a signal to Jason.

It's an old sign, one of the first Bruce ever taught me. It means that the situation is secure, and that there are bad guys in the night, and most of all, it means _take them down_ and _freedom to hunt_.

I catch the glint of his teeth in the dimness of the warehouse.

"Can I have my gun back?" he asks, circling in close as we unconsciously herd them towards a more defensible corner.

"No," Tony says. "I don't trust you."

"Awwww," Jason whines. "Timmy, tell him I'm trustworthy!"

"You're not, though," I toss at him. "Besides, you've got, what, three other guns on you?"

He cocks his head at me. "Nice eye. Glad to see you haven't forgotten everything you learned."

"What's going on here?" Tony snaps. "Seriously! Tim, what are you doing?"

I sigh, and tug out my bo staff. It clicks together in the dark. "They outnumber us," I explain. "By lots. None of you are wearing Kevlar and you're not _that _good at hand-to-gun. Do you _want_ to die?"

"Oh, hey, I remember that staff!" Jason exclaims, and then obviously figures out just where he remembers the staff from. "Uh, no hard feelings?"

"If I took it personally every time someone beat me almost to death with my own weapon, I'd never get anything done," I say dryly, and Jason chuckles.

"Is that funny?" Tony wants to know. "Is that a joke? Tell me that's a joke."

Ziva exhales. "McGee, is this man a threat? Did he hurt you?"

Their eyes are adjusting enough that I feel comfortable circling out farther.

"It's kind of a long story..." I start, but a door opens on the other side of the warehouse. I drop, leaning forward to brace on one hand, staff extended behind my back. "Get down," I say. "They're coming."

Jason says, "I'll go high," and the familiar _hiss-thump_ of the grappling gun fills the air. He flies upwards, and perches in the rafters.

"There are crates to the left of you," I direct behind me. "Make for them, and cover us from there."

And then they bust through three different doors and a window, and it all pretty much goes to hell.

Jason tosses a flashbang, and I recognize the case in enough time to yell a warning before shielding my own eyes. He comes in from the back and I start in the front, and a few at the sides fall from bullets.

Soon enough, they break apart, and they fall quickly. They're big and strong, but not quick, and they have no training whatsoever.

I pass by Jason, who snaps his fingers at me. I know what he wants, and I throw a knife at his chest.

The handle thunks neatly into his palm, and he says thanks with a jerk of his head. We flank the few remaining guys, slowly but surely circling in.

We both know this dance so well, and we don't need to talk. Jason flashes a hand sign at me, and I grin.

The plan is set. The bait is taken.

God, how I've missed the hunt.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_See you next time for_ No More Secrets!


	7. No More Secrets

_This part was designed to be read independently, or after any of the preceding numbers._

.

**No More Secrets**

* * *

><p>I was sitting on a backwards chair, arms folded across the backrest. It was a favored position of Tim Drake, but one that McGee did not indulge in.<p>

"Something you wanna tell us, McGee?" Gibbs prompted after I'd sat in silence for a while.

"Fine," I sighed. I didn't want to, but they had to know. They had the right to know. "I was born and raised in Gotham. And, as everyone knows, that's not…the safest. But it's better than it was, because there're heroes."

"I thought there were no heores in Gotham?" Ziva asked, and I bit back a smile to hear the old excuse.

"Well," I said. "I don't know if you could call us heroes."

"But what—" Tony stared, but I interrupted.

"Just listen, okay? So some sidekicks are bright and attention-getting. They're a distraction, and...their partner is the power. It's a good team, and it works, mostly.

"But what a lot of people don't know is that sometimes, there has be more than one sidekick. It's a dangerous profession, and they're young, and attention-getting, see? So there have been a few.

"And I was one."

There was silence, and then Tony snorted. "Sorry," he said, and, "Nope, not buying it. No way McGeek here was a _vigilante_."

"Tim McGee, wasn't, no," I replied, mild as milk. "But then, I haven't always been McGee. It's just a name."

There is a slight pause as everyone pretends not to have heard that bitter statement and then Ziva changes the topic.

"So that Red Hood, he is a vigilante you know?" she asked.

"No, Jason was a R...he worked with the same mentor I did. Right before me, actually. He died, kind of, and came back a little bit mad."

"Right, of course," Tony bit off sarcastically. "He came back from the dead, yeah. This isn't a movie or a comic book, McGee. This is real life, and the_ dead __don't come back."_

"You think I don't know that?" I exploded, surging to my feet. I could normally keep a lid on my temper, but not that topic, not then. "You have _no right_ to talk to me about death. No. Right. _You have no idea."_

And there was silence, before Gibbs, almost gently—almost—said, "Who did you lose, Tim?"

I sunk back into the chair, wanting to laugh. Who haven't I lost? But if I started laughing now, I knew I wouldn't stop. "My mother," I said, going in chronological order. "My father, my step-mother, the love of my life. Jason, twice. Kate. And…and Br—my mentor. And so many innocents and civilians that we were too slow to save." I began that laundry list, and, once started, couldn't stop. Disaster, casualty count. Disaster, casualty count; disaster….

No Man's Land. Central City. The war games. The Riots. The thing with Hush. Joker's Parade. Arkham breakouts, all three times. The Blackgate breakout, and subsequent massacre. Arkham breakouts, times four, five, and six. And so many more.

I ran out of anger before I ran out of names, so I cut off the list early and wrapped it up tiredly. "So don't you talk to me about death. Don't you talk to me about sacrifice, or family or duty or _honor_. Don't you even dare."

And Tony looked away, and I felt a stab of guilt and shame. I kept forgetting; Tony isn't Dick. Tony feared loss because he hasn't dealt with it often. I feared it because I knew it far too well.

"Sorry," I mumbled. "I shouldn't have gone off like that…"

Ziva looked at me with sad, knowing eyes, and I couldn't meet that gaze. Gibbs drew my attention by saying quietly, "That's a lot to hold yourself responsible for."

And, yeah, that was funny, because I knew that, I did, but my list is still shorter than either Dick's or Bruce's. "I know," I said, dragging a hand through my hair and down my face. "Would you believe I'm the sanest one of us?"

No one answered, until Gibbs finally asked, "Why'd you leave?"

"Oh, that," I said. "I was…I was caught by a bad guy. A _really _bad guy. It only took them about two weeks to find me. It was right after my dad died, and Stephanie, and I just... I didn't tell him anything, but…I didn't come out entirely sane, either. And I realized how crazy it all really was. So I ran."

And I stared at the floor, because I respected these people too much to want to see pity in their eyes.

"So now you know. And now you know that I can do a lot more to help, to protect you guys, than you thought. And why I wanted so bad to be a field agent, but don't like drawing a gun. There's a lot more I can do, now that I don't have to hide so much.

"So now you know." And I paused to swallow. "Will this change anything?"

"Not if you don't want it to," Gibbs said, and I chanced a glance up from the floor, because we all knew he was lying.

"Yes, it will," Ziva broke in. "Now, we can help. If you let us."

And Tony met my searching gaze, and he didn't say a word. This would take time for him, I knew, but I was prepared to wait. He did nod, though, and I knew I was forgiven my outburst earlier, and maybe even gained a little more respect from him. Maybe this would work out all right.

"And perhaps we can spar, sometime," Ziva continued, and I smiled.

I ducked my head in agreement, and said, "Sure. And maybe practice languages, too."

She beamed back, and I swallowed the lump in my throat, the ball of hysterics and unshed tears. Tony left the room, to get air, to think, and Gibbs was looking at me in a new way.

Yeah, you know what? I think it might just be okay, after all.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_It's so cute how you guys think I'm done~_

_See you soon for: That One Time He Took On A Vigilante Apprentice (But Only Kind Of)_


	8. That Other One Time

**That One Time He Took On A Vigilante Apprentice (But Only Kind Of)**

* * *

><p>So I'm not the best chef in the world, but I'm quite passable, and am fairly good at making simple dishes out of the stuff that's lying around. Tonight we're having Whatever's-In-The-Fridge Stirfry, something of a specialty of mine.<p>

So the carrots are a little too crunchy and the chicken is a little too salty, so sue me. It's edible, and that's the standard I aspire to.

"Teach me," Sarah says out of absolutely nowhere, and I choke on a carrot.

When I get done almost dying, I manage to wheeze, "Teach you...what?"

"Teach me to do what you do," she says, because that narrows it down a whole lot.

I put my fork down and push the bowl away from me; it's best I not try to eat or drink until after this conversation. "You...wanna be an NCIS agent?" I hazard.

She rolls her eyes and says, "No, _duh_," and I am forcibly reminded of how young she is all over again. "Teach me this superhero stuff."

So I stop and think about this, think about what she's asking me. It's a lot to take in. I mean, I know the upsides and downsides better than most of the world, and, as a big brother, it's my duty to help Sarah grow. But grow into what, is the question.

"I'll teach you self-defense and martial arts," I say finally. "I'll teach you anything I know that you'd like to learn. But I won't teach you how to apply it."

She squints at me, and yeah, okay, so that wasn't the clearest way to put it. "You can't be a vigilante," I sum up bluntly, and wait for the explosion.

"Hypocrite, much?" she snorts, but before she can show me the sharp side of her tongue, I hold up a hand.

"And I'll tell you why," I continue. "Because being a vigilante is a _strain_." She looks as if she's going to interrupt, so I hurry to sooth prickled pride. "I know you could do it, but. But it's more than physical stamina. Living a double life is exhausting, and hard. The shootout at the bank comes before homework, even if it lasts all night. The hostage situation will always take precedence over dates. You can't ever promise to 'be there' for anyone, because it isn't true. And, at any moment, your luck could run out, or you may be called upon to die. And if you're very, _very_ lucky, you'll die saving even a single life. Are you willing to die for those cheerleader girls you hate? And the bad guys will always want to kill you, and the good guys will always want you in jail, and you can't ever trust anyone, because the risk is never worth it. And that's not even getting into the physical demands; the bruises and long hours and longer training, and I know you've seen my scars.

"So, yes, call me a hypocrite, but it's not the life I'd wish for you. Hell, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I can't _stop_ you from being a vigilante, not if you really, really want it. But I'm not going to enable it, okay?"

Sarah watches me a moment longer, I guess to see if I'm done speech-ing, and then says, "_You_ lived it."

"I got the hell out of it," I remind her, and sigh. "Look, make you a deal? I'll teach you anything you want, and you promise you'll only use it for yourself."

She looks at me skeptically, and I wait. It'll take her a while, because she's ridiculously stubborn, but this time, I hold all the cards. She'll capitulate and promise, and I'll teach her how to kick and pick locks and basic hacking, and I'll help her sooth away all the little tells that she has when she lies. I can teach her research, data compilation, and how to apply critical thinking. I can teach her how to fall, and, depending on her progress and aspirations, I may even teach her to fly.

Finally, she cracks a wry little smile. "You make no sense," she tells me, just a little fondly.

I smile back at her, and say automatically, "You love me anyway." She looks down and shakes her head at me, and suddenly I smile wider, because I realize it's true.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

__Sorry! I really can't help it; I just love Sarah._ And yes, this is short, so come back tomorrow for: Two Times Tim Explained His Backstory (And One Time He Lied Through His Teeth About It)._


	9. Two More Times

**Two Times Tim Explained His Backstory (And One Time He Lied Through His Teeth About It)**

* * *

><p><strong>2 At the Morgue<strong>

"Cause of death, Duck?" Gibbs asks—well, demands, when we hit the morgue.

"I'm...not sure," Ducky says, and I wince. I know how much he hates saying that. It's almost as much as Gibbs hates hearing it. "It seems like the poor man literally died from fright, but-"

"But he wasn't scared," Gibbs says.

"Exactly," Ducky nods. "No drugs, bloodwork came back clean, although, I did find this under the fingernails..."

He moves over to the counter to pick up a little container, and Gibbs follows. I'm left by the table, and I look down at the dead guy.

Dead from fright...? Huh. I lean in and sniff. It's enough to make me put on a glove and pry open his mouth. Traces of bleeding around the gums, check.

"Timothy?" Ducky asks, sounding rather scandalized. I look up, and see the two of them watching me.

"Pears," I explain, and check the eyes. They're bloodshot, and whites are a pale shade of yellow.

"I beg your pardon?" Ducky says, and I take off the glove and toss it.

"It's a chemical compound," I elaborate. "A type of hypnophobic gas, capable of causing hallucinations and suppressing survival instincts. It's targeted, swift, and deadly, and also dissolves into the bloodstream in minutes, mostly because it's a delivery system for the neural component of it. Developed and used by Johnathan Crane, though this is an outdated strain, I think. The current one is odorless; he stopped using the Pear Strain a few years back."

"Crane?" Gibbs prompts, probably wanting to know whether or not to pursue the name.

"Alias 'Scarecrow,' Gotham villain. Incarcerated in the state penitentiary once, and Arkham Asylum twice; the first time level 2 security cell, the second time level 5." I rattle off. "Criminally insane. Main weapons are fear gas and psychology; physically weak but to be approached with care. Gathers minions through brainwashing and fear." I almost launch into the summarized version of his history, but then change my mind. Gibbs won't care; all he wants to know is, "It's not him, though. Someone stole or got their hands on a case of his old gas, is all."

"Can you track it?" he asks, and I nod. Well, I can't, but dollars to doughnuts I can find the records from Bruce or Babs.

"Do it," Gibbs says, and sweeps out of the room. I take a few steps after him, and then stop and look guiltily over my shoulder.

Ducky is watching me, really _seeing_ me for the first time in a while. I swallow a bit, but Ducky is familiar and comfortable, and I'm surprised to find that I trust him.

He just looks, though, and doesn't ask. I can tell that he's not going to ask, for all he's desperately curious. He's too nice to pry like that.

I sigh. I can ping the Bat-server to set up the trace later. I make a mental sidenote to get a new mini-CPU, and pull out a chair for Ducky, and a second one for me.

"I guess I owe you an explanation," I say, and drop down, sitting backwards in the chair.

"No, my dear boy, you don't owe me anything," he says, but I can almost see the effort it takes him to say that, because he really wants to know.

"That's exactly why I do," I sigh. "So, what do you know about superheroes?"

* * *

><p><strong>1 In The Lab<strong>

The elevator doors whoosh open, and I take a deep breath.

There's music playing in the background, but it's down low, and Abby is twirling in her desk chair, doing...something. I have no idea what it is, and I also have no desire to find out. "Abby?" I call, a bit warily.

"Tim!" she cheers, and bounces out into the lab proper. "Hey, what's up?"

I really don't want to say this, but orders are orders. "Gibbs sent me to upgrade your computer."

She immediately turns serious. "There's nothing wrong with my computer. What's wrong with my computer? Did you do something to my computer, Tim?"

"Nothing's wrong with your computer!" I say hastily. "I'm just gonna wire you into a remote database and FTP server, okay? It's not your computer, I'm just getting you more access."

She gives me the hairy eye, and I hold my breath. There's a little interval while she stares at me and I do my best to look innocent and like I know what I'm doing, and not at all like a deer caught in headlights. "Gibbs' orders?" I try, and she sighs explosively.

"Fine," she says, finally. "But I'll be watching you. You'd better not mess up my computer!"

Forget a woman scorned, hell hath no fury like a woman whose port settings have been tweaked.

Still, I've made it to the keyboard without massive bodily harm, so I think I'm doing all right.

"What's this new database, and why is Gibbs ordering it, anyways?" she asks, and I hesitate, but only for a second.

"Well," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "It's an extensive database that only I have access to, so Gibbs thought, if I were busy, or you know, indisposed or something, that you should be able to access it, too."

And that conversation hadn't been half as fun as the one with Babs, trying to get her permission to add in Abby's lab as a terminal. She'd capitulated eventually, with a few conditions. Namely, that she could control Abby's access, and that she'd be coming by to meet her sometime soon.

I very much plan to be firmly out of town, if Babs and Abby get in the same room together. I'm not sure if they'd throw sparks, or bond over humiliating me, and I'm honestly not sure which I'd prefer.

"And what is it?" Abby asks, and here's the part I'm dreading.

"It's connected to...well. You know about the Justice League?"

"Duh," she says, flapping a hand at me. "Who doesn't know the Justice League? Superman and Wonder Woman and Green Lantern and, ooh, what I wouldn't give to meet Black Canary!" She leans in closer. "They say there's another guy, too. Someone behind the scenes, with all the information, who's, like, a ninja or something. But no one really knows for sure."

I smile a little, because it's not one guy, it's the whole Bat clan, really. Bruce may be the strategist of the Justice League, but Dick is the heart, and Babs is the brain. My fingers still fly across the keys, inputting the access codes Babs grudgingly gave up.

"So how's this relate to the League, then?" she asks.

"I'm getting you access to their database," I reply, focused on the particularly tricky bit of rerouting I'm working on. I'm setting up a triple-blind privacy system, just in case. No need for people to trace Abby to the Watchtower.

Because this is the compromise we'd reached, Babs and I. She'd route Abby into the Watchtower, but not the Bat Computer. That should be information enough, and if it weren't, that would trigger the alerts Babs had scattered throughout the system, and Babs could make the decisions from there.

And it's only an entry-level access, so no information that's too classified, but still. It's much better than AFIS.

The silence behind me is growing ominous. "I'm sorry," Abby says. "I thought you just said you were _hacking the Justice League_."

"Er, not quite," I respond, still caught up in building the interface. "I've got permission for you and all that, so it's not hacking." Technically.

"Right. Because you have access to the database of the premiere superhero team in the world."

"Yup, sure do," I say, mindful of the atmosphere. This is why I'd waited so long to talk to Abby about this.

And then, suddenly, the scary cloud breaks, and she says, rather plaintively, "Why?"

I sigh. "I, uh, didn't have the most normal childhood," I start, and, out of nowhere, a hand catches me on the back of my head.

"If you tell me you got arrested by superheroes, McGee... What, did they catch you hacking into the database? Like you're_ doing right now_?"

"Wrong side," I snort. "I was a sidekick."

Abby stares at me, and I know because I spare a moment to glance over my shoulder. "I was young and stupid," I say quietly. "And I don't regret it, not quite. But...I grew up."

Abby spins suddenly, putting her back to me and crossing her arms. I open my mouth, then change my mind and go right on typing. I'm only halfway done.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," I say eventually, watching numbers and letters go speeding by. "I wanted you to know, but at the same time, I just... Well. Trust is...not a luxury I'm used to."

And thin arms snake around my waist, and she squeezes. It's awkward, and a little painful because she's hitting a fresh bruise, but I close my eyes for a second and just revel in it.

It's been a long time since I got a hug. Sometimes, I forget how important physical contact is.

I don't lean in to it, though, and I can only let myself take a second, before I'm back to coding again.

"Tell me about it," she commands, and, never one to refuse a lady, I talk.

"It's...glorious. Being able to fly, knowing a city is counting on you, protecting people, saving lives. Hell, we saved the world a couple of times, and the galaxy once or twice, and even the multiverses that once. And when the fight is over and the bad guy is caught, and there are kids who aren't dead and mothers and fathers who are still alive to hold them...there's nothing, _nothing_ that compares to that.

"And it's horrifying. The stuff we learned, the villains we faced, the things we saw, the things I did. The worst part was seeing the worst of humanity, seeing the depths people would sink to. And being trapped in a burning building with fifteen kids, only time to save three and having to choose...there's nothing that compares to that, either.

"I'll never not have nightmares," I tell her. "But I don't wish it were any other way."

She's buried her head in my back, and I keep my elbows out, so as not to hit her. I'm finishing up the sequence, inputting the last few strokes, when she finally murmurs, "Careful, Tim. Your martyr complex is showing."

I huff out something that's more a breath than a laugh, and say, "Yeah, well."

Because I have no excuses to give her, and she doesn't ask for any. And I'm not going to cry, but it's just that-I wasn't expecting her to-I don't even know. It's just...nice.

And it stretches for a second, two, and this moment is perfect, but it has to end. "There you go," I say, purposefully shifting the mood and hitting Enter. "A whole new world for to you poke and prod and ask questions of." And I'm not sure if I mean the database or myself, but it doesn't much matter, in the end.

"Thanks," she says, and lets me go. "I think this'll be fantastic."

And if Abby thought it would be, then I knew we'd make it so.

* * *

><p><strong>1 And That One Time In The Office<strong>

"McGee," Vance says, pushing back in his chair. "While I really appreciate you jumping in like that, I didn't know you spoke French."

I bite my lip and look down. Then I think really hard about what Abby would say if she found my Superman boxers, and the blush creeps up my cheeks. "I don't, not really," I say. "I took a little in high school, but you know how well that comes out. So Ziva's been helping me work on it a little, but it's still not…I don't speak it. I just, well, I had to try, sir."

It's a bit of a gamble, because I'm counting on a couple of things, here. I'm counting on the fact that he wasn't there to hear that I didn't have an accent. I'm counting on the fact that he's reading off of Tony's and Gibbs' reports, who would probably not mention fluency. But these aren't really a big deal, because if someone did mention it, I'm counting on Vance chalking it all up to natural modesty.

I could just say, 'yeah, sorry, I speak it—and no few others—but I didn't put it on my resume because…well, because', but I'd like to keep him underestimating me, and I don't trust him, not at all, but mostly? I really, really don't want to ever be considered for overseas assignment.

I spent a great deal of time in all the wrong parts of Paris. I have no desire to go back.

Vance rolls his eyes at me, and I bite back a smile. "Yeah, okay," he says. "I'll list that in your file for you, then."

I'd rather he not, but I have no way to stop him, so I just duck my head and say, "Thanks."

"Keep up the good work," he says, a dismissal, and I leave.

I dislike him, sometimes, but I know better than to show it.

* * *

><p><em>...<em>

_It has come to my attention that I should have probably set up the Zero piece more clearly, so I will be editing that soon. In the meantime, I hope the discussion with Abby clears up some of it. See you soon for Three Bats That Came to Visit (And One He Went To See)!_


	10. Three More Times

**Three Bats That Came To Visit (And One He Went To See)**

* * *

><p><strong>3 Just as Promised<strong>

"It was '83," I correct Tony mildly.

He stops by his desk, and turns to glare at me. "It was '82," he says. "Trust me on this one."

And normally I would, but I've been trying out my new mini-CPU, and had looked it up. "'83," I tell him. "Or has the International Movie Database, Wikipedia, and all of the Internet got it wrong?"

He just stares at me, and then finally manages, "But...how...you're not even near your computer!"

"I can hack into the Internet using my mind," I tell him with a straight face.

It takes him two seconds to decide he doesn't believe me. "No, seriously, how did you-?"

I turn sideways a bit, showing off the new bulge on my belt, right behind my hip. "It's a computer," I tell him, and laugh at the look on his face.

"Oh, come on. That isn't a computer; where's the keyboard, or the screen?" Tony asks, disbelief heavy in his voice. Tony's not a technophobe, but neither is he a technophile.

"It's a miniaturized CPU, rewired for direct input and output via the buttons, ideal for travel or remote accessing. None of the bulk, all of the power."

"Yes, it's that; thanks, Babs," I say absently, and then twitch.

"You're welcome, Tim," she responds, grinning, and rolls the rest of the way in.

"Well, hel_lo_," Tony says, and I stifle a laugh. I meet Babs' eyes and jerk my head towards him, asking if she wants me to stop him. Her wink says, clear as day, that she'll take care of it herself. Tony, oblivious, continues. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

"Barbara," she says, and offers him a hand. "Nice to meet you, Tony."

He stumbles on his next line, and she blinds him with a smile. He rallies impressively, though, with, "So what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

"Visiting my little brother," she says, and I snort. She's more of an aunt than a big sister, or, really, I'm not sure. Being Bats has bound us together, and that bond goes so much deeper than social concepts of 'family'.

But Tony's mouth drops open again, and he turns to me, looking crushed and utterly betrayed. "You've got _another _sister? Geez, McGee, and I'd pegged you as an only child. That's, what, three brothers and three sisters?"

"Kind of. And you haven't even met my uncles," I say blithely. "Our family is, uh. Unconventional."

Babs laughs, and says, "I do believe that's the nicest adjective that's ever been applied to us."

"Yes, well," I say, and just take in the sight of her for a second.

Babs looks good. Well, she always looks _good_, but she looks like she's doing well. Her eyes are bright and her hair gleams red in the florescent lights, and she's updated her wheelchair again. It's smoother and more streamlined, and still so very shiny. But my eyes catch on the glint of gold from her wrist, and it makes me want to wince; it's the charm bracelet Dick gave her years ago, the one with the little bats and familiar V's on it.

I don't know what's going on between them, currently, but none of our relationships have ever gone smoothly.

She catches where my eyes are, and smiles at me. It's real, but it's got a streak of grief a mile wide. "Yes, well," she echoes, and shrugs.

"Right," I say, and lean forward to put my hand over hers. I'd like to say something comforting, but I've got nothing. If I came out with any platitudes, she'd smack me.

And then I hear the elevator ding open again, and glance up to see Ziva. Ziva and Dinah. "Oh," I say. I hadn't expected that, which was stupid because I really, really should have.

They're deep in conversation, which is scary, and both smiling, which is scarier. "No," Ziva is saying. "I find the fingerlock the most effective."

I _so _don't want to know.

Dinah catches sight of me, though, and stops. "_Tim_," she breathes, after a second of staring.

"Hi, Dinah," I say, and curse that it comes out shyly.

"_Tim_!" she repeats and throws herself at me, and I catch her. She wraps me up in the strongest hug I've had in years, and it feels perfect.

I glance at Babs over her shoulder, and she's smiling gently. It occurs to me that Babs didn't tell Dinah who they were coming to see, and that the rest of the superhero world still thinks I'm dead or gone.

I also catch sight of Ziva, looking incredibly confused, and Tony, looking incredibly jealous. I smile, and then close my eyes and hug Dinah back.

"It's good to see you," I murmur, and she lets out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob.

"Oh my god, _Tim_, you don't—I was...we all thought..." And she squeezes extra-hard, and I think I hear my bones creak. Then she pushes me away and throws a punch at my face.

I duck and fall on my butt to avoid the kick that follows it. I hear exclamations in the background but I'm rolling, feet over head, to pop up behind my desk. It's a familiar pattern; divert the kick, block the punch, and then hop up on top of the desk, because we Bats have never fought from the ground.

She settles into stance and takes a deep breath. I've seen that enough to know what comes next, and I kind of like the squadroom in one piece, not thousands. Her Canary Cry would not only blow out the windows, but mess up all the computers, too. We can't have that, so I flip over her head. "Innocent bystanders," I remind her, and sweep her legs out from under her.

Or would have, if she hadn't turned and backed off. _"__Innocent bystanders?_" she says. "Do you know what we, _innocent bystanders_, went through when you disappeared?" I stop to blink, and she almost lands a jab. "The brooding alone almost drove me insane! And you know, better than anyone, that the _guilt_—" and I see where she's coming from, so I come in tight, and close. "Tim, I _can't believe you!"_

And I catch the punch, tug a bit, and pull her back into me. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean—I never wanted..."

I don't have the words, but she understands anyway.

This time, when she pulls away, she sniffles once, rubs her hand over dry but shining eyes, and lightly slaps my shoulder. "Don't you ever do that again," she says, and smiles, bright and watery.

"Never," I promise. "Never again." And I even mean it, because as much as it would break them if I left again, it would shatter me worse.

"Right," she says, and just looks at me for a while.

Although it's happened more than it should, it's still not every day that the dead come back to life.

Babs clears her throat, and Tony starts to say something. It's no doubt both silly and flirtatious, so Babs just talks right over him. "So, where's this Abby I came all this way to meet?"

"She's got her own lab, because she's more special than us," I inform her, and offer Dinah my arm. "And I think she would particularly love to meet you, if you wouldn't mind. She was extolling the virtues of high heels in self-defense last week."

We're almost out of sight when Gibbs comes down the stairs from the Director's office. He sees us, and I stop and turn to face him. "Who're your friends?" he asks.

I take a second to inhale, and to decide what to tell him. "This is Barbara, and Dinah. Babs, Dinah, this is Special Agent Gibbs."

He looks them over, eying Babs and her hair for a second longer, and says wryly, "More _family_, McGee?" and I have to smile, because yes to the family, _no _to the McGee, and he knows it.

"Something like that," I allow. "I was just gonna take them down to meet Abby."

He blinks at me, and says, "Then what are you still doing here?"

Dinah makes a noise that sounds exactly like that noise you make when you're trying to disguise a giggle. Babs doesn't bother, and just laughs. It's light and happy, and I have to smile. "I see why you like him," she says to me.

"Funny," I gripe, starting forward again. "Dick said the exact same thing."

The elevator doors close, and Dinah says, "I suppose you can take the boy from the Bats..."

"...but you can't take the Bat from the boy," Babs finishes, and they're still giggling over me when the door opens to the lab. I exit quickly, doing my best to look extremely put-upon. It isn't hard.

"Abby?" I call. I can see her back, and I finally get near enough to notice the headphones. Right.

Moving a little slower and a lot lighter, I come up behind her, and pull one earpad away from her head. "Hi," I say, and let it go.

She shrieks and twirls in a most satisfying manner, and I duck the arm she flings around. "Tim!" she yells, voice still high.

"Abby, Babs, Babs, Abby. Also, Dinah. Have fun!" I call, and a duck and a weave get me the hell out of there and into the relative safety of the elevator.

I love them all, but I'm still scared of them individually, to say nothing of them as a group. I fully intend to go hide under my bed—or behind Tony—until they're done conspiring.

I just hope they leave the building standing.

* * *

><p><strong>2 Brotherly Bonding<strong>

The last thing I want to see after a shootout is my desk, complete with requisite paperwork. I always thought this was an immutable fact.

Turns out there is, in fact, something I like seeing less. Namely, my desk with requisite paperwork plus additional guest.

"I hate you," are the first words out of Damian Wayne's mouth.

"I know," I say, and drop my bag with a sigh. "What do you want?"

"You were never worthy of the suit, much less the cowl," Damian announces far too loudly, scowling far too darkly. "You were always a liability and an insult to the profession."

I fall into my seat and sigh, "Yes, thank you, Damian." I haven't slept in three days, and haven't had caffeine in the past ten hours. I'm running on fumes, which may actually be a good thing. It means I'm too wrung out to be properly angry about Damian sitting on my desk. On the other hand, it also means that if he decides to try and kill me, chances are he'll succeed. "So what do you want?"

"You failed," he continues, blatantly ignoring me. "You failed, you were compromised, and then worse, you _gave up_." His eyes narrow, which is a feat in and of itself; I hadn't thought he could squint further without actually closing his eyes.

"Kinda knew that," I point out. "I was there." Because what I really need right now on top of the shitstorm that was tonight is a rehash of all my greatest regrets. No, please, _do _rub that salt in those wounds a little harder.

"These are all the reasons that I will not ever hesitate to kill you," Damian says, and I believe him. So help me, I do. He grew up as an assassin, and right now I can see that in his posture and his eyes.

As much as I believe it, though, I'm not currently dead. This begs the question, again, of "So what do you want?"

He frowns at me, then huffs and turns away. "You haven't called Grayson back. He's getting worried."

And now everything makes sense. Dick wouldn't just drop in until a week or so after I stopped answering, and it's only been about three days. I got a message right before this case blew up, literally, and my cell phone's in more pieces than my priorities just now. Dick would be worried, but not enough to do something about it. Obviously, Damian took it upon himself to remedy the situation, and it's _almost _sweet.

He isn't done yet, though. "Which means he's losing focus in the field, and is a liability. Once again, you are dragging him, and therefore me, down. Your capacity to fail even when not directly involved is astounding."

And that's almost a good lie. It's clear he hates me, but it's equally clear he's fond of Dick. And yeah, I do need to call Dick; running patrol while distracted can be dangerous.

"Geez," Tony interrupts. "Who even talks like that? Seriously, you're, like, six."

Damian has ignored everyone else up to this point, but now he focuses in on Tony. I raise a hand and cut in before he opens his mouth to eviscerate the hapless agent. "Not worth it," I say. "Don't bother. I'll call Dick in a while, okay? I wasn't ignoring him; I was just busy."

He seems less than pleased, but that has always been his default setting so I'm not too worried. He glares at me, and it's fairly impressive; I can definitely see the family resemblance. He's got a while to go 'til he's on par with Bruce, though.

"Very well, Drake," he drawls unhappily, my old name an insult on his lips. "But I'll be watching you, and if you upset Grayson this much again I will find you and make sure you live to regret it."

It's the kind of threat a professional makes, someone who knows there are worse fates than death and how to deal out most of them. It's not one that can be made idly, and the fact that it's completely credible coming from someone so young makes it that much stronger. There's not a person in the room who doubts his word.

"You'd have to get in line," I reply anyway, because like hell am I letting him get away with that. Can't let the brat think he's got me cowed. And also because Bruce would get to me first, just behind me holding myself to account.

He bristles, but his objective is accomplished so he hops off my desk and strides away. Seriously, there are damn few people the verb 'stride' can rightly be applied to, but he's one of them. It's a skill he must have picked up from Bruce.

"See you around, Damian," I call after him, just to piss him off. He turns to glare over his shoulder, so I wave a hand lazily.

"No," he answers shortly. "You won't." And just like that, he's gone.

Tony lets out a breath. "That's one scary kid," he says, and I nod. Ziva does, too. Tony's flopped bonelessly in his chair, and he rolls his head to one side to look at me. "What was that even about?"

I actually have to stop and process that; that's how tired I am. "Uh," I finally say. "I think I just got the boyfriend speech over my brother," I decide. "Which is just awkward."

"This one a brother, too?" Tony groans. I nod, and he sighs explosively. "Seriously, I give up keeping track of you people," he says. He'd probably have thrown up his hands if he was any less tired.

"I like him," Ziva says, and we both flop our heads over to stare at her. "What?" she asks defensively, no less frazzled than the rest of us.

"Figures," I mutter. "You probably even trained with his mom." It's not unlikely, actually; as I recall, Talia did a stint in Mossad, as well as every other agency she could lie, hack, or bribe her way into. Ziva hums curiously, which I take as a prompt. "Talia?"

And suddenly, despite her exhaustion, Ziva's sitting up straight. "Talia?" she repeats, then demands, "Talia _al'Ghul_?"

"Oh," I say. "So you do know her."

Ziva says nothing. I think she might be trying to, but not actually succeeding. I'm not sure, though; my chair is amazingly comfortable right now and my eyes are sliding closed. With the mission over and the threat neutralized, I'm crashing hard. "Hell of a woman," I continue. "Hate fighting her. She's fast 'n strong..." I have to pause to yawn, "...but arrogant. Likes to get fancy when simple'll do."

"You've _fought _Talia al'Ghul," Ziva says, and I hum agreement.

"Fought her dad more," I murmur, not really paying attention anymore. "Stupid Lazarus pits. Should just do the world a favor and stay dead."

There's motion, and I open my eyes enough to classify Gibbs as a non-threat. He's upright and moving, and that's more effort than I want to think about just now. _He _got to sleep last night.

He stops, looks us over, and says, "Go away."

"Yes, Boss," we murmur, or variations thereof, and none of us get up. I put my head down on my desk.

Gibbs sighs, then sits down at his own desk. I'm listening now instead of looking; I hear Tony groan and Ziva shift, but not far.

My team is safe, Gibbs is on watch now, and I'll be fine to drive home in a second, right after I take a short nap...

* * *

><p><strong>1 Also known as, Oh Shit It's Him Run<strong>

The phone on my desk rings, and I pick it up absently, tucking it into my shoulder so I have both hands free to continue typing. "Agent McGee," I greet, and frown at the screen. If I can just get around this protocol, then I can implement the routine that would-

"Agent McGee, you have a visitor?" Janice from the front desk says. There's a hesitation in her voice, and I stop, sit up straight, and blink.

It's not unusual for me to get a visitor. Uncommon, but not unusual. But Janice knows Sarah, and most of my family wouldn't bother with the front desk because rules are something that apply to other people. I'm not working any case where I dropped my card with a witness, not recently, so I really have no idea who it could be. Then I almost smack myself on the head, and remember that I can ask, "Who is it?"

There's a little hiccup over the line in the background, a little breath, a little _cough_, and I wouldn't have heard it if I hadn't been listening, if I didn't _know _that sound.

"Oh, _shit_," I say and drop the phone.

"Agent McGee?" Janice's voice pipes down the phone, but I'm too busy panicking to really pay attention. Because Jason may be insane, Damian may be out for my blood, and Bruce may not actually be a human being, but there is still one person who scares the crap out of all of us. Janice says, rather loudly, "He says you're expecting him?"

"I," I manage, then pick the phone back up. "Um. I. Yes?" She asks me to confirm his name and ID, so I do on autopilot. Then Janice hangs up, and I sit there, staring at the phone for a few seconds.

"Um," I say, mostly to have something to do.

"Are you okay, McGee?" Ziva asks. She's glancing at me sideways, and I know, okay, I _know _I'm bordering on some massive mix of panic and shock because I am about to be so, _so _dead, and I'm not even particularly sure I mind.

"No," I say, one of the few times in my whole life I've ever answered _no _to that question. "I don't think I-I gotta go."

I grab my bag, and just hit the power button on my computer. I'll make up the lost work later or something; coding is less than important right now.

I spare a moment to be thankful it's Friday afternoon. It's five minutes to five, even, though most of us don't ever leave that early. Except Tony, but he comes back later to finish stuff when no one's around to see him be productive, so that doesn't count. Still, I glance at Gibbs' desk as I heft my bag over my shoulder.

Gibbs is watching me. He doesn't look worried, per se, but he's not really happy either. I meet his eyes as I round the corner of my desk, and I hesitate, just for a second. Regardless of the clock, regardless of visitors, if Gibbs needs me then I'm staying.

But the boss just tips me a tiny nod, and I take a deep breath, steel my nerves, and head for the elevator.

Tony and Ziva aren't working anymore, and I miss whatever byplay goes on behind me. Then they both scramble to follow. I sigh; I hadn't thought they wouldn't, but I had hoped they'd do me the courtesy of at least pretending not to.

Gibbs watches us until we get to the elevator, and I take a last glance around the squadroom before the metal doors close with a particularly final sounding _click_.

The silence in the lift is tense and awkward for about as long as it takes Tony's curiosity to overwhelm his sense of personal boundaries. That is to say, about four seconds.

"What's going on?" he asks, turning to face me.

"I'm about to be dead," I say. I'd tried to state it as bland fact, but it comes out a little weaker and a lot quieter than I'd meant. Because have I mentioned yet how dead I'm about to be? The answer is still 'very'. Very dead. Not even mostly. Completely.

Why is he even _here_? I mean, it couldn't be an out-and-out assassination attempt; he's far more subtle than that.

"Is this person a threat to you?" Ziva asks, suddenly on guard. I snort; I can't help it.

"Not in the way you're thinking. And I doubt you could take him, anyway," I tell her. It's true; even Bruce has trouble in cases like this.

"Who is it? Who is it?" Tony wants to know, bouncing around to try and find weakness on my face. My mind is in shock, my doom is imminent, and my temper is fraying, so it's a good thing for everyone that the doors choose that moment to open.

I force my lungs to expand, and begin the trek to the front desk. The walk seems to take forever, and I spend a good deal more energy than it usually takes ignoring Tony. But then I hear Janice, and she's laughing.

Of freaking _course _she's laughing. He's charming and his wit is as dry and classy as champagne, and if he decides you're going to like him then_ you are going to like him._

Either I make noise or Tony or Ziva do; I'm not sure and it isn't important.

"Ah, Master Timothy," Alfred says, impeccably polite as ever. "What a pleasure it is to see you again."

I wince. "Hi, Alfred."

He looks at me, then he _looks_ at me. I know I should've been by the Manor earlier, but it's too late now for shoulda-coulda-woulda's. I can't stand the way he's looking at me, so my eyes hit the floor. There's a moment, a second, then I offer the only thing I have; I say, "I'm sorry."

It comes out thin and high and childish, and I wish I could swallow it back down. But I can't, so I wait. There's another pause, and my heart flips over itself in a move Dick would be proud of. Alfred has always been our constant and our support, our guide and our adult. He may nominally work for Bruce, but if Alfred doesn't want me back then I don't get to go back. End of story.

"Oh, my boy," he murmurs instead, and relief makes me sway weakly. I can't help but hug him. This man got me through my high school career when all of my worlds were falling apart around me, and kept me sane for as long as he could.

"Sorry," I say, and, "missed you," and then I have to let go and step back, because that isn't fair to him. Especially since I'd hate to ruin his suit.

"Very well, then," Alfred says. "Master Bruce has sent me to collect you for Saturday night."

I blink, then set to figuring out what Saturday is. Well, Sunday is special, but Saturday is-oh, damn, it's the annual bash for Bruce Wayne's birthday, isn't it? My face pulls before I can stop it, and I say cautiously, "The birthday party? Is that...really the best idea?"

Alfred regards me calmly, and I see the calculations and failsafes that cascade behind his eyes. "Master Bruce believes so," he says, and if Bruce believes it then it's fact.

"Bet Dick's behind this," I mutter, and by the faint twitch of his eye, Alfred agrees. "Right," I say, and turn back to my team. "Apparently I'm going away this weekend. Call me if something comes up." Coincidentally, I happen to have the next two days off, and you know what they say about coincidences; they take an awful lot of planning. Good to know this wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision on Bruce's part.

"It is a pleasure to meet Master Timothy's friends," Alfred's saying to Ziva and Tony with a little bow. "He has never been blessed with making them easily."

"Alfred!" I exclaim, scandalized. I mean, yeah, it's true; when you've got too many lies to balance, friends just get in the way. But that doesn't mean he has to tell them that! "Anthony DiNozzo, and Ziva David. Please stop telling them outrageous lies."

"I would never, Master Timothy," he says, and that is such an outrageous lie in and of itself that I have to smile. He continues with, "Your old room at the Manor awaits your return, and your tuxedo is ready for the fitting." I don't question how he got my measurements; it isn't important. I don't have my flat knives on me, but I trust Alfred to have a set of 'rangs or knives to tuck into whatever suit I end up in, because Alfred knows how we like our security blankets sharp and pointy. "Master Dick has inquired as to your preference of dates, and Master Damian has indicated a desire to defenestrate you repeatedly should you attend. Master Bruce would like me to remind you of your press training, and reiterates that punching reporters is still not permitted."

"It was only the once!" I protest. I'll never live that down, apparently, but I don't regret laying that one guy out; there's slander and then there's just plain asking for it.

"Indeed," Alfred says with a straight face.

I sigh; it's impossible to win when Alfred starts agreeing with you. "I'm ready," I say instead, hitching my bag up higher. We need to get home before Dick tries setting me up with some model or other. Abby's working, though, and Sarah has a term paper due Monday, so I'm pretty much out of luck with bringing my own date.

Alfred gives his polite little almost-bow, and says, "Miss Janice, a genuine pleasure." She titters and flushes, and I wonder absently for the millionth time if Alfred really does have superpowers. It would explain so much through the years. "Miss David; Master DiNozzo."

I toss a little wave over my shoulder and say, "Bye, guys."

"Goodbye," Ziva murmurs, and Tony says, "What the actual hell, McGee?"

"I know," I sigh, following Alfred. "Don't you hate birthday parties?"

* * *

><p><strong>+1 Many Happy Returns<strong>

I was right on pretty much all counts; Dick's model friend is pretty, my new flat knives are prettier, and quite incidentally, sharper, though still not quite on par with Damian's tongue.

(He does try to defenestrate me. Five times, now, and counting.)

I haven't gotten to talk to Bruce yet, not really; last night was patrol and all of today's been in the public eye. It is, after all, Bruce Wayne's birthday, and appearances must be kept up. Dick has been busy being charming, Alfred has been busy arranging things for tonight, and I've been busy foiling Damian's rather lackluster murder attempts, which is all the more annoying for the fact that Damian's been stuck to Bruce's side the whole damn day. Bruce has been Bruce instead of _Bruce_, which is always a bit disconcerting.

This whole thing is, though: I'm so out of practice with the paparazzi song and dance routine that it's laughable. Dick's certainly laughing at me, anyway. I can't believe I'd forgotten how incredibly blinding flashbulbs are, even if I haven't forgotten how to fake a real smile. It was a relief to duck away from them earlier, under the guise of getting ready for the birthday bash. That's what it's called on the invitations, you know; 'Bruce's Birthday Bash'. I'm not sure what Bruce has done recently to warrant this bit of Alfred's subtle vengeance, but it must have been bad.

It's been a nice respite, but there're a million more cameras out there, and ten times as many questions. But there are also old friends to find and pretty girls to dance with, and I may get a chance to chat with Bruce for more than ten seconds, which would be a change.

Bruce is standing unnaturally still now, not inviting conversation, and Damian is skulking around at his side. It's the three of us waiting here; the girls are still getting ready. I think. I'm never sure when it comes to these matters. They'll appear at the party sometime, I'm sure, and that's enough for me.

The door next to be slides open and Dick finally comes through He's resplendent as always, and always takes more time than any of us. I think he spends it on his hair, personally; it's unusually shiny tonight. That's the headcount, though, and it's time to face the music.

Dick messes up Damian's hair and reaches out to tug my lapels into place, Damian scowls at everyone impartially and fixes his 'do, and Bruce tips us a nod. Then we all put on our smiles and Bruce opens the door.

Despite the familiar itch of a new suit and the brightly false smiles of the others, despite the crowd and the glitz and the glam and the fashion and flash photography, despite the drinks and the gossiping and the many many stories I'll have to spin tonight, somehow, just for now, my smile isn't fake.

* * *

><p><em>No More Secrets has been edited; sorry about the confusion there. Also, sorry it's been a while, I had to do life. I will finish this, promise; only two more chapters to go!<em>


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